


The Castle That Moved

by kirschtrash



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Angst, Eren Yeager Has Heterochromia Iridum, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Game of Thrones References, Howl's Moving Castle AU, Jean with gay feels, M/M, Marco being the flawless person he is, OCs - Freeform, Original Character(s), There's A Tag For That, Wolves, alternative universe, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirschtrash/pseuds/kirschtrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein is a simple man, with simple needs - he wants to make his name in the tiny town of Trost, in his family's shoe-shop. As good as he is in his father's art, he doesn't feel free; until he meets a mysterious wizard, with the name of Bodt. Marco Bodt.</p><p>But there is a cost to this freedom: now he his thrust in to the world of witches, wizards, and monsters - none of them being as friendly as he had anticipated. Being a victim of an attack himself, Jean seeks refuge in 'The Castle That Moved'. But his escapades have just begun.</p><p>A tale of equal parts angst and feels - with some fluff - this is about Jean Kirschtein, battling the evil forces with the wizard that saved his life, and learning the true meaning - and cost - of freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was the first surprise, that I had mentioned on tumblr; a classic jeanmarco "Howl's Moving Castle" AU. It was too good to just avoid eheh  
> Enjoy, my lovelies! :3

**The Castle That Moved.**

**_Chapter 1_ **

 

The distant, heavy clangs and creaks of metal against metal woke Jean up from his state of reverie.

He blinked a few times, and looked outside the window across his work-bench. He leaned a little closer to see beyond the thick plumes of grey smoke coming from the train. Only after squinting hard enough, did he actually spy it:

It was “ _The Castle That Moved_.”

Indeed, that castle _moved_ ; it had odd metallic legs that held all of its structure above the ground. The Castle itself all but consisted of metallic domes and walls that were haphazardly piled on top of the other, making it look like a strange yet oddly fascinating creature.  
Jean abandoned the leather scraps he held in his hands, and twined his fingers under his chin. He chose to inspect the odd contraption more, trying to find its odd, appealing factor that everyone found. To Jean, it did not _look_ like a Castle; even from this distance, it was too rusty, too dirty, and it’s noises too _obnoxiously_ loud to be a castle. Still, many admired the weird monument - especially the ladies.

Even from his own work-station, he could hear the girls from the other room abandoning the shoes they were shining, to stare outside the window dreamily, others even sighing away. Jean could only roll his eyes at their states.

Of course, the high-and-mighty ‘ _Wizard_ ’ lived there after all. Bodt was his last name. No one had ever truly seen him though; they say that he changed appearances with everyone he met, and thus no one knew what he actually looked like. But one thing was persistent from each rumor he had heard (especially among the ladies) – he was _devilishly_ handsome.

Jean shook the large trail of thought out of his mind, trying to focus on the task ahead of him. He squinted down at the black shoes he had yet to make. Huffing, he lifted his hammer, and continued fixing and tinkering at it, until it shone like an all-new designer shoe.

By the time he was done, he wiped away the sweat at his brow, and looked outside the shop once more, almost habitually. The huge castle had begun receding behind huge curtains of mist, travelling farther and farther away in to the green hills beyond, till it all but vanished from sight, far in to the Lands of the Wasted.  
The songs sung about the land long ago usually suggested it to be a dangerously perilous place, where warlocks, wizards, witches, and even monsters lived, all of them planning to join the dark side. The heroes that did go there, according to those songs, all died rather tragically. Anyone suicidal enough, or drunk on the idea of heroism would choose to go there. But this strange castle always ventured there – why it did, no one knew. Was the well-known wizard evil? Or maybe he was sent there by someone? No one knew, and no one was brave or foolish enough to venture forth and find for themselves.

As if someone were knocking in to his own mind, Jean heard a sharp rapt at the door. He shook out from his daze once more, before turning to answer.

“Jean, dear, you should leave with us. You’ve done enough already.”

Jean automatically shook his head, “Oh, no, Aunt Petra, I’ve yet to make a few more pairs.” He knew he was lying, but he could not help himself. He continued, “You people can leave; I’ll close the shop once I’m done.” He smiled in the end to prove his point.

“Alright, Jeanbo, suit yourself!” Aunt Petra shrugged. Jean winced at that nick-name playfully; she always had a knack to it.

As Aunt Petra and the rest made their way to the doors, he heard one of the young girls squeal in excitement:

“Ah, just imagine if the _Mighty Wizard Bodt_ would save me today!”

“God, Mina, would you stop that? How would he even get here?”

“Sasha’s right! Besides, I’ve heard that he eats the hearts of the people he ever loved!”

“Oh, Lilith, you listen to many rumors and believe in them too much. They will be the end of you one day!” Aunt Petra complained. Lilith flushed in embarrassment, as the other people started snickering behind her. Jean himself laughed softly, knowing Lilith’s frail sense of belief all too well.

Aunt Petra was a tiny woman, but a loud and hearty one, with soft, orange hair that matched her charming smile, and a big heart to match. She currently owned “ _The Kirschteins’ Shoe Shop_ ”, where he worked. It was launched by Jean’s great grandfather first. It was passed down from one family to the next this way, till it ended with his family.  
Jean’s father had held the business extremely well, making dozens of shoes in one day – all of them better than the next. He made the little shoe shop shine throughout the town of Trost. Everyone loved him and his work; the town of Trost was a small one with thin walls, so everyone knew of the other well enough. That was one reason why everyone felt a saddening blow of grief, when Mr. Kirschtein had passed away peacefully in his sleep. The shop was then passed on to his sister, Aunt Petra, according to his will.

The memory was so sudden, and so vivid, it still left Jean numb. His father was who he always looked up to; a strong, sturdy man who held his own, and was loved by many. These qualities of his were what Jean loved – and at many times, even _envied_. He could not keep the feeling from rushing through him, stinging like acid; those qualities of his father made him famous, loved - a _somebody_. But Jean was merely a shadow of his father, a shadow that kept lingering behind him, until he left, leaving Jean alone and bare. _  
_

It had been three years since then. Now, a man grown of twenty-one years, he decided to continue his father’s name; it would be unfair to just let it die out the way his father did - he loved him too much to just leave it at that. It felt like the right thing to do, for Jean. His elder brother, and even his mother, urged him to do something different, something that would make him _somebody_. But how could he do anything else...?

Nevertheless, he kept himself to his work all the time, trying to master the art that his father was great at. It was a reason why he spent most of his time in the shop. Though he was done with his share of work ages ago, he still chose to stay; underneath his underlying feeling of perfectionism, he always felt safe in the confines of the shop – the same shop where his father worked. The shop itself was a remnant of him, and so Jean found himself greedily spending his time there, breathing the same air he did, running hands down tools and leather-scraps like he did.

It was the only place that made him feel like he was home; it was a place where everything outside ceased to exist, where he did not have to prove his worth to anybody. It was a place that let Jean be _someone_.

Jean rubbed at his tired eyes until he saw stars. He ran fingers through his brassy hair, scratching his darker undercut, as he eyed his work upon the bench.  
It was definitely better than his last attempts. He let himself smile.

For a blissful moment, he believed he could be as good as his father.

 _But then what?_ A voice whispered in his mind.

The anxious moment went as soon as it came, as he swallowed it down. He realized that it was getting late. It was a Friday, after all; shops closed much earlier than was necessary.

Jean stood up from his seat, and stretched till he heard a few satisfying ‘pops’ from his back. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, and sighed heavily. He looked at the time - it was 6 o' clock.  
He dusted his clothes, and pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders. He was undoing his rolled-sleeves, as he made his way towards the coat rack. He shrugged on his brown tweed jacket, and pulled his flat-cap on his head.

The cap was never his; his father had given it to him for his 16th birthday. Its bright red color had faded in some places, but otherwise, it did not seem as old as it actually was. His friends and family would tease him that its color looked absurd with his clothes, but he could never let go of that cap.

He looked in to the mirror next to the vintage coat-rack, eyeing his reflection intently.

His father’s words echoed in his mind, the way they always did when he looked at himself: “ _Son, if you wanna be noticed by the world, best be kind and gentle. Love sends a greater signal than hate. People never forget when you commit good._ ”

When people looked at him, all they saw was the son of a great, kind and honest man who everyone loved.  
When he saw himself, all he saw was just a fragment of the man the people loved, the rest being nothing but a scrawny man who had no means of making a name for his self – a simple _nobody_.

Sniffing petulantly, he pulled the cap over his eyes tightly, before making his way towards the front-door. The doors jingled as he closed them, locking them up securely. After double-checking them for safe-measure, he resumed his walk back home.

On his way, his stomach grumbled. He sighed, before muttering under his breath: “Well, it wouldn’t hurt meeting Joff.”

He changed his route, turning instead towards the road that led to the diner where his older brother, Joffrey, worked. He always had a passion for cooking, since he lived by the words: “ _The quickest way to a man’s heart, is through his stomach._ ” The whole family rolled their eyes at it, but it never stopped him from striving, and soon enough, he ended up owning a well-known diner at the center of Trost.

The atmosphere was bursting with energy up to the brim that day; Jean saw the crowds throwing confetti and roses at the oncoming ranks of the army – the _Corps_ , they were called, a pair of wings sewn at their breasts. The proud soldiers wore the colors of blue and silver, smiling at the crowd for their enthusiasm. Even a choir played the trumpets and drums, matching the beat to the soldiers' stomping feet and beating hearts. Men and women equally cheered, welcoming their heroes heartily; they had recently won a battle, news had stated, and such news always made the people of Trost burst with joy.

He was about to make his way towards a dingy alley, when he felt someone hold him by his shoulder. Turning to face the person, Jean noticed it was his friend - Connie, donned in a suit and grey fedora hat.

“Hey, Jean!” Connie greeted.

The two hugged each other, before Jean asked, “What brings you here?”

“Oh, I just saw you passing by. I wanted to say a little hello, is all.” he replied, shoving his hands down the front pockets of the grey coat he wore.

Jean chuckled, as he said, “You did well. So, what have you been up to, hm?”

“I’ve been working at a bar, its right around Main Street.”

“You own it? Or…?”

“No, no, I just need the money to pay these taxes, y’know. Even though we just won a battle," he said, gesturing at the festivities, "we’re losing the war. The Authorities are tryin’ to scrape up some more money from us to handle the military expenses, the news say…” Connie paused, sighing tiredly through his nose, before saying, “But at this rate, we’ll be scraped clean, _and_ we'll lose the war.”

Jean sighed as well, tired of the stupid war that began out of nowhere; King Smith had declared war against the authorities of the Land of Sina, claiming it theirs ‘ _by right_ ’. Rumors said that wizards and witches were being recruited as well – possibly even monsters.

“Anyway,” Connie began, “there _is_ an open place up at the bar, if you’d like…”

Jean only chuckled, as he asked, “Why would I want to work at a bar?”

He shrugged in reply: “Definitely overrules working in a shoe-shop alone.”

That statement hit Jean a bit too forcefully, because Connie was right. It was the same thing his siblings would say – that he should focus on what _he_ wants to do, that living life like that would not get him anywhere,

_I’m not going anywhere. I won’t be able to; I’m not good enough for anything else._

Jean shook his head, “Don’t worry, Connie. I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself. Well, I gotta go catch the train.” Connie hugged him in a friendly gesture, before faring him well.  
Jean stayed there, waiting until Connie disappeared in to the huge crowds. With one last glance, he made his way towards the alley once more.

This route was much shorter, he knew. He made his way through the narrow alleys, spreading out like a labyrinth. As he made his way deeper, the noises of people slowly started receding, until it came as nothing but mute sounds, muffled by the bricked walls of the alleys. It was much more peaceful than the cheers and shouts of the people surrounding him, Jean realized. But still, the sudden absence of any kind of man did not fail to make his skin crawl.

As he looked up, counting the number of alleys to skip, a huge man stood right in front of him, blocking his way. The stranger came so suddenly, Jean almost ran in to him.

He chanced a glance at the man’s face, and gasped; the man was bald, and had no skin that was bare from tattoos – he was practically _covered_ in them. A huge, black and bushy mustache covered his puckered lips. Next to him, crept a much simpler, dark-skinned man, garbed in black, with black greasy hair that sat on his head like a mop, covering the evil stare he must have held.  
Both the men were muscled, and both were two heads taller than Jean was. He gulped dryly.

“Well, well, well,” drawled the bald man, “What’s the rush, _shortie_?”

“I – I have to be somewhere.” Jean replied quietly.

“Maybe you could give some o’ your gold and moneys…” the dark man said next, giving away his evil stare. The other crook started chuckling at Jean, as he stepped a little closer.

“ _Leave me alone!_ ” he said, louder this time, backing away slightly.

The bald man laughed, his whole body moving with his hearty spells of laughter. He said in between chuckles: “Shortie’s got a _mouth_ on him, _eh_?”

Jean flushed in anger and helplessness. The dark-haired man _tsk_ -ed, “Best ya cooperate with us, shortie,” he began, holding a knife right at him. “Or,” he continued, “you run back home without a limb.” Jean’s breath left him.

Jean was about to faint, most likely, before he felt a warm weight on his right shoulder, the gesture not as sudden.

“ _There_ you are,” said the stranger, with a voice like honey; deep, and sweet as a melody. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” The hand pulled Jean’s frame in to a stronger frame that radiated  _warmth_.  He looked up, only to see the tall stranger turn to talk to the criminals.

“Is there a problem, _sirs_ …?” The stranger asked gently, not even remotely fazed by the knife pointed at the two.

“Who are yo-“the bald man began.

“I think the two of you were just leaving, _hm_?” the stranger cut off the crook’s speech, with a flick of his wrist,  
The slight gesture quite _literally_ shut them up, for the crooks’ mouths shut in to a tense, straight line. They mumbled in confusion, not able to speak at all. With another lazy flick of the wrist to the side, the crooks stood as straight as arrows, as if they were bound by invisible ropes. And like that, the two _marched_ down the alley, mimicking soldiers. They exclaimed and fought against the strange force, but in vain, for they continued stomping their feet, quickly vanishing from sight.

Jean’s eyes trailed the two men’s receding bodies, mouth open in shock. _How did they just-_

“Don’t take it too hard on them.”

The stranger had spoken up. Jean’s eyes snapped back at his face, eyeing him for the first time.  
He was strangely _beautiful_ ; his wheat-ish skin glowed under the dim light, splotches of freckles covering his straight nose and cheeks – trailing down his neck too. His bright, brown eyes glittered with youth, as his short, black hair fell across his forehead effortlessly. He was garbed in a simple yet dazzling suit; he wore a mint green coat over black dress-pants, with a white dress-shirt underneath. The coat was draped around his broad shoulders elegantly, the empty armholes waving at his sides.

“They aren’t all that bad,” continued the stranger, a bright smile with sparkling rows of teeth adorning his face. He still hadn’t removed his hand from Jean’s shoulder, but oddly, he found the warmth comforting.

“Where to? I’ll be your escort this evening.”

Jean only stumbled across his words, clearly baffled by the stranger’s mere presence. But he replied quietly, “I- I, I just wanted to go to the diner-“

He cut him off by gently touching his arm. “Do not be alarmed, I’m being followed,” he said in his gentle, reassuringly deep voice, and as much as the prospect of being followed scared Jean, it did not feel like much at that moment.  
He blinked down at him, looking for his approval. And to his surprise, Jean saw something – he saw the stranger’s eyes _change_ from a bright brown, to a deep wine-red. _How?_

 

But it went away as soon as it came, and he was left to question whether what he saw was real, or…?

The stranger just smirked playfully, before looping an arm around his arm, and together, they walked down the alley once more, as calm as ever – as if the previous events never happened.

The sky had turned a soft, pale purple, as the sun dipped to meet the edge of the horizon. Everything was awash with a purple hue, coloring everything in sight. Though the atmosphere was peaceful and quiet enough, Jean’s mind was still a complete mess – a mixture of utter shock and wonder; two men were about to rob him, but this kind stranger appeared out of nowhere and saved him by making them march away, like a play of magic. And now he was escorting him to his destination like a gentleman for no reason. _Events like that don’t just happen every day_ , Jean thought. Was it pure luck? Or was it something else…?

The stranger was a head taller than him, so Jean had to tip his head back slightly to look at him properly. Thick lashes outlined his big eyes, and Jean even saw an earring dangle down one of his ears – a fine, golden chain, with a huge emerald studded at its end, shaped like a tear drop. Such extravagance was rare in the humble town of Trost, and it was one reason why it surprised him even more.  
The stranger's eyes were trained calmly - yet a little too forcefully - forward, his feet moving timely, like a machine’s. A calm smile adorned his features, and he _still_ looked forward, not even chancing a glance at his surroundings.

As if he were expecting something…

Jean heard a rustle from behind him.

He was itching to turn around and look, to find what was behind him, but the stranger simply stated, “Don’t look now; looks like you got involved.”

_Involved?_

The rustle turned in to _moans_ ; moans of grief, pain, fear, and strangely – of _hunger_.

Jean only squeaked out of fright, and instinctively hugged the stranger’s arm, not even thinking twice. He wanted the stranger's warmth to help melt the fright off his bones.

But the wails of pain continued, and even intensified, sending waves of fear through him all over again, like a cold hand ghosting down his spine. Judging by the loudness of those hurting moans, it was certain that those things were following them - and were near them. Jean was not so eager to turn around anymore, afraid of what he would see. One wail was followed by another, and it was not long before a whole group of such empty cries trailed the two.

The stranger was still looking forward, still peacefully smiling, still horribly calm. But his glittery eyes hardened with determination in an instant. He held Jean’s arm protectively, as he whispered:

“ _This way._ ”

He turned Jean around a sharp corner swiftly, the alley being much narrower than the one before. The stranger increased their pace in to a simple trot.

The inhumane noises increased even more, till Jean was gritting his teeth in irritation, screwing his eyes shut. As he opened them, he saw creatures at the far end of the alley.  
They were not human at all; they were disgusting blobs, black as night, with spindly limbs on which they _crawled_. They wore human clothes, and had no face, except for the different masks all of them wore. Their cries of pain practically _echoed_ from their mouth-less faces, sending chills of dread down Jean’s spine.

What was more: those monsters started _flooding_ in to the alley – like a black sea of monstrosity – from the back and from the front, cornering the pair…

He felt the life trickle out of him in hopelessness-

“Hold on!” the stranger warned.

The zombies started coming nearer, till they were only mere feet apart them. Suddenly, Jean felt an arm loop around his waist, and before he knew it, he was shot up straight in to the sky. A wordless cry escaped his lips as gravity failed to work on them.  
The alley below his feet started shrinking as they flew up, and up, and up, until they stood suspended in air for a daunting moment. Jean forgot how to breathe.

The stranger, however, held his slender hands in his larger, warm ones. The simple, warm gesture easily wiped away his troubles for just a moment.

“Now, straighten your legs and walk.” advised the stranger.

And so Jean did.

The act felt so _unreal_ – how could someone walk on air? Wasn’t that just some stupid scene out of some fairy tale?

But to Jean’s utter surprise, he did indeed walk on _air;_  he did so quite easily, his legs practically moving on their own accord, with his hands enveloped within the stranger’s. The air below somehow kept them upright, so that they weren't falling. Instead, they were _walking_ across the _sky._

The two floated on top of the world together; roof after roof they passed in blissful silence. They soared like a free bird would, with its tiny wings beating, sending it higher and higher up till the sky's limit. That was how Jean felt, with his heart beating fast, a smile plastered on his face:

 _Free_. He felt _free_.

The though made him happy. As the cold air cut through him, he let the odd feeling rush through him, letting it light him with energy from the inside. He was _literally_ on top of the world. He felt so free after such a long time – after _forever_ , actually. This pure feeling of utter happiness was not something Jean was fully accustomed to, and having just a mere taste of lit his taste-buds on fire. It was only after walking through the sky like this - _feeling_ like this - did Jean understand the true meaning of living.

The Sun was sinking down below the horizon this time. He could have sworn to have been able to see every color in existence, in that one moment; reds and blues clashed right where the sky ended, and the dying hues of pale purple and pinks bordered the edge of the horizon. He could see the brilliance of the world right below his feet; the crowds of people were thinning as darkness fell, and even then they didn’t dare to turn their heads up towards the sky:

Why would there be people walking on the sky, after all?

Suddenly feeling a surge of weird enthusiasm fill him up, he stepped on to the tip of a tall pole ahead of them, and jumped. It elevated them a little higher, the air ruffling their clothes.

The stranger smiled: “You are a natural, huh?”

Jean could only blush in response, hiding a shy smile.

They continued on like that, gliding over Trost peacefully, until the stranger guided him to a lone balcony. It was the balcony over his brother’s diner, he noticed; meaning their little adventure had ended. Jean found his heart sink a little when he realized – it was the most fun he had ever had in forever.

Nevertheless, the stranger held his waist, and twisted him around. They floated a little after that, as he let Jean descend down onto the balcony slowly. As Jean turned around, holding the stranger's shoulders, time seemed to have stopped; they looked in to each other’s eyes, and in that moment,  something like an unspoken dialogue passed between them, something even Jean was not aware of. But as the stranger’s eyes crinkled at the edges _just_ slightly, he felt that _that man_ was aware of it all too well.

Before he knew it, a wooden floor replaced the air underneath him, and he was standing once again. The stranger balanced himself on the railing, his swift legs not faltering once. He held one of Jean’s hands tightly, as he said, “Do not leave until the coast is clear, okay?”

“Okay…” Jean replied, trapped in a daze.

The man extracted his hand slowly from Jean’s and Jean slowly let go of it, his cheeks positively burning under the man’s gaze.

“I feel we may meet again in the future.” he said, before bowing in a way a gentleman would. He smiled softly at him once more, like a silent farewell. Jean could not come to say anything; he was left to grasp some string of words, to just say _something_ -

-but before he could, the stranger _jumped_ off of the railing.

A wordless cry left Jean’s lips as the stranger just jumped. He rushed forward, to see whether he got hurt– but he was nowhere to be seen. He all but vanished from plain sight; he searched here and there, to find the similar mint-green coat that only that man could have worn, or his mere presence, but none could be found. Jean was left to gape, his heart hammering in his rib-cage.

He ran a hand down his face, as he sighed shakily: _what just happened…?_

“ _Jean_ …?” a familiar voice called from behind him.

He turned, and saw his brother, Joffrey, standing there in utter shock.

 

* * *

 

“So you mean to tell me that some _magician_ came and saved you from crooks - and you managed to _fly_?” Joffrey asked, bending down towards the counter.

Jean all but shoveled his mouth with more comfort food, like his steak that he had ordered, nodding faintly. He should have known better than to have shared the tale with _him_ ; as good as he was, it was near impossible to convince him of something, Jean knew. As he swallowed his bite, he looked up to stare at his brother. He was not much like him in first glances; Joffrey was taller than Jean, and even in his simple work-clothes, he was fuller than him, and had brown eyes from their mother’s side, unlike Jean’s amber eyes from their father. But then, if one looked closely enough, they were siblings after all; both had the same brassy hair, and both had angular faces, with sharp noses and defined jaw-lines. Jean could only find him to confide his events to; Joffrey had always been with him through thick and thin, after all.

“Why don’t I believe it, then?” Joff asked.

“When have you ever believed me?”  Jean asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Joffrey just chuckled, as he said, “Ah, you got me there, Jean.”

They both shared a laugh together, their sounds echoing off the walls of the almost-empty diner. It was near 8 o' clock, and yet Jean was too shaken to leave – not since the man had warned him to leave once the coast clears.

The memory brought along the rest of their adventure in to his mind, playing like a movie; he just wanted to bottle it up, keep it near him _physically_ , so that it would not go unforgotten, getting lost in the folds of time. He sighed a little, suddenly not feeling that hungry; why was he feeling this way? He was just a stranger he had never seen before, and he had just happened to save him – albeit with some supernatural abilities.

And yet…

“Hello, Jean!" He heard his brother call. "Stop doing that!”

He backed away from his brother’s snapping fingers in front of him, asking, “Doing what?”

“Stop sighing away like a love-struck fool!”

Jean just flustered even more, reaching to smack Joff’s arm. Joff all but laughed at his futile attempt to maim him. His brother flung his dirty apron right at his face, laughing at the way Jean spluttered in surprise. It was hard to be as scrawny as he was, sadly.

“I’m just kidding, Jean! Well, that stranger used magic, you say?”

“Yes, he did. How else could he have walked on _air_?”

“Could it be the wizard of the Castle that Moved?”

Jean stopped for a second – could it be _him_?

But he shook away that shred of hope, as he reasoned, “No, Joff, why would he be here? I saw his castle move to the Land of the Wasted today.”

Joff casually leaned against the counter, folding his arms. He ran a hand through his long hair (a habit just like Jean's) before saying, “If you can name me any other wizard that bold, you’re welcome to.”

Jean scratched his head, trying to find some other reason; it could not possibly be him, could it? He was too extravagant, too famous to be walking through alleys and saving people like that. Most of all; why would that wizard be saving someone like Jean?

“No, it can’t be. He wouldn’t go on saving people like me…”

“Oh come on, Jean, you _are_ beautiful enough!” Joff pouted.

Jean smacked him once more, threatening to do it again. Joffrey started laughing again, before speaking through chuckles about how adorable he looked while he blushed.

After having eaten his dinner in the end, he got up to say his farewells; it was late enough for Jean already. As he made his way towards the door, Joffrey held his arm. Jean turned, wanting to ask of him, but his brother began first:

“Jean," he said softly, licking his lips in anxiousness. "Isn’t it time you try doing something other than that shoe-shop business?”

Jean remained speechless, too aware of the question he asked. Before letting his elder brother know of his hesitance, Jean smiled, saying, “I’ll be alright, Joff. After all, it’s what Father would want-“

“But this isn’t about what Father would want; I’m asking what do you want?”

Once again, he was speechless – a habit of his he certainly despised. It was the same thing Connie had said, countering his argument of his noble intentions and what-not:

_“Definitely overrules working in a shoe-shop alone.”_

_“-I’m asking what do you want?”_

_I…_

I don’t know. I don’t know what I _want_. I'm just a nobody, nothing else, so what’s the use? Why should I even _bother_? All I want-

- _is to be free_.

“D-don’t worry, Joff.” he said, his voice slightly thick with emotion – curse his damn emotions. Jean gripped his brother’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. He smiled – or tried to, he couldn’t tell.

Joff only nodded, smiling as well, but his _eyes_. They were twinkling, but with something else underneath:

Pity was what Jean saw underneath his look, and it hurt Jean to be looked upon like that. He has always been pitied, nothing more; as if he were too lost to fly on his own. And sadly, it made Jean loathe himself more to think – that it was true. It was all true. If he were strong enough, he’d be somewhere else, not here, being _pitied_.

Hugging his brother again, Jean left the diner. The doors jingled behind him as he stepped out in to the cold night. The air was cold, as it stung Jean’s burning cheeks. Stars twinkled softly far away in the sky. The once-crowded streets were silent, except for Jean’s footsteps that echoed, as he made his way back home. The night was always silent here at Trost; people always sought the warmth of their own houses over the cold night. But they had never actually seen its actual brilliance; the darkness that fell after day has a silent comfort to it that not many could feel. But Jean could. He always relished the night; it was a hidden phase of the world that he enjoyed. He breathed in the cold air, the scent of nearby forests heavy. Jean smiled faintly, breathing it in, letting his worries melt away with each breath.

He was a few yards away from the diner, when Jean remembered to give a new pair of shoes to his mother as a gift – the ones that he accidentally left back at the shop. Groaning, he changed his route once more, running back to the shop.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay,” Jean huffed, opening the door to the shop. He turned around to lock it, just to be sure.

He stepped towards his workbench, trying to find the deep-red pair of shoes he worked on that day. Just as he spotted them at the edge of the table, he heard the doors closing from behind him, jingling softly.

He turned around in shock, to see a woman entering the shop. She wore a hooded cloak that hid her face, but underneath it, Jean could see a beautiful black gown that trailed around her feet. She could have been his age, but her demeanor suggested… something else.

“Um, sorry, ma’am, we are closed. I _had_ just locked the door...”

She completely ignored him, surveying the shop instead. Underneath the shadow of the hood, Jean could see the sharp glint of green, piercing eyes.

“What a nasty shop,” the woman commented coolly airily, still surveying her surroundings. Her light voice gave away her youth. She continued, “What nasty shoes here too, ugh.” she picked at one shoe displayed for purchase, and flung it behind her, with her pale, delicate hands.

Jean wanted to protest, to make her leave, but she said:

“But I must say,” she drawled, looking up and down Jean’s frame, before saying, “you’re the _nastiest_ thing here.” She said it so smugly, with a proud smirk on her face, it made Jean downright angry.

He swallowed down his rage, by saying calmly, “Ma’am, I don’t see how you enjoy this, but sadly, you must leave.”

He walked towards the door, opened it, and held it out for her, giving her the steeliest stare he could muster. He did not like getting angry.  
The woman all but looked at him in a challenging light; her green stare bored holes right at Jean’s skin, and scarily, Jean could feel his skin sear as she stared at him more and more. It was as if he were being played by her, like a chess piece. It made him even angrier.

“I suggest you _leave,_ right now.” Jean growled, with acid in his tone.

The woman just threw back her head and laughed; she laughed loud and heartily, her hood falling back to reveal her face. Surprisingly, she _was_ quite young; her pale skin was covered with make-up that made her seem much older than she was. Her ashen-blond chair hung till the edge of her jaws, shaking with her chuckles. If anything, her piercing stare was worse that way. When she was done, she stared right in to his eyes, and Jean couldn’t help but _flinch-_

“Oh, boy,” she said in between giggles. She cocked her head to one side coyly. “That isn’t a way to talk to a witch from the Land of the Wasted, hm?”

“ _A witch-_ “Jean whispered, eyes blowing wide, but before he could find his voice, he heard the same gruesome moans he had heard in the alley-

Those inhumane monsters filled the shop from the door Jean held open, tripping over one another as they flooded the shop. Jean screamed, backing away, trying to run, but there was no other exit; he was trapped.

In panic, he turned around to look at the woman, and-

-She held her cloak open, revealing utter darkness underneath; nothing but horrible emptiness swirled there, like an absence of mass where light did not exist. Jean could not move- he could not move, _no_. He was _stuck_ ; he felt invisible arms holding him right in place. He struggled, he screamed, but to no avail-

The woman cackled, and ran right at Jean-

He ducked his head, screwing his eyes shut, _gasping_ -

The darkness suddenly engulfed him, and he felt invisible forces lash at his skin. He cried, he screamed, he felt his skin sear as the forces cut and pierced him, and he shouted for help, to help him, _please_ -

It only lasted for a second.

And suddenly, he was back on Earth, his head swimming thickly, his thoughts sluggish. He tried to stand upright, but he felt so _weak_ – he fell to his knees, grunting in pain and helplessness. He panted, tried to stand, but he was so weak. His limbs grew too heavy, as he groaned shakily.

“The best part of that little spell is that you can’t tell anyone about it,” he heard a female voice say from somewhere behind him, but he couldn’t even see anything, all he saw were stars, and behind it _darkness_ -

“These are my regards to Bodt, you see. Till next time; _ta-ta!_ ” Her voice was too muffled, and as soon as he heard the door close, he blacked out.

 

* * *

 

 

He opened his eyes, and the first thing he knew was that his head _hurt_.

He groaned in pain, as he sat on his knees, and rubbed his eyes. He glanced at the clock; it was 6 o’ clock in the morning, it seemed, as the pale light of dawn crept in to the room. Did he sleep here…?

The events of the previous nights flashed too quickly behind his eyes… he was almost certain that it was all just a long, tiring dream.

He reached to pick up his cap that lay a few feet from him, but as he stretched, he noticed-

He could see the floor faintly through his hand.

Jean’s eyes blew wide.

He rubbed his eyes again, making sure he wasn’t just dreaming or anything, triple-checking himself-  
But there it was, as true as the day is long; he could see _through_ his hands, like a translucent screen.

His breathing caught right at his throat, as he forgot to breathe.

He stumbled clumsily towards the mirror they had. Maybe he was still dreaming, this can’t be _real_ -

And there it was. As true as the day is long:

Though faintly, Jean could see _right through himself_.

 

* * *

 

 

[here's my tumblr yooo](http://captaink-irschtein.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where could Jean Kirschtein go, after falling victim to an attack by a wretched witch? He does not know what to do next - there was nothing behind him anymore, but everything risky beyond. Will he be alone, through his perilous trek, or will he meet unexpected acquaintances?

_**Chapter 2** _

 

The first few moments passed by in nothing but steely silence - the atmosphere punctuated heavily by Jean's ragged breathing, as he took in his drastic change of state - literally. 

His eyes grew as wide as saucers, as he slowly turned his head to his left, and then to his right. To his horror, he could see right through his _cheeks-_

Jean scrambled up on to his feet hastily, still not leaving his eyes from his reflection - or what was _left_ of it. As soon as he stood, however, his head swam. He grunted in pain, as he clutched his head. It felt as if the floor underneath him was swaying. Unsteadily, he turned away in utter confusion, stumbling across the length of the room, seating himself on his workbench.

The wooden chair was cold underneath him when he sat. He rubbed his clammy forehead, trying to regain his bearings, steadying his breath. He couldn't properly remember what had happened the day before; his thoughts were fuzzy and scattered, strangely beyond his comprehension. He massaged his temples, breathing in deeply, breathing out slowly, trying to recall events of the night before;

And then it hit him like a massive tidal wave.

He gasped as he remembered the witch, her sharp, evil, green gaze, and her cloak that hid darkness underneath it. He remembered the same ugly creatures that cornered him, as black as night and as monstrous as beasts. He remembered the strange, creeping forces that lashed and scraped and seared at his skin, leaving him bare and burning, until the witch left. Then Jean had fainted.

And then there he was, his whole being gone faint - partially _invisible._

Maybe he was still hallucinating; he must have hit his head hard, most likely. Or maybe he was still dreaming; maybe it was all a terribly long and tiring dream. If he'd think hard enough, he could wake up, right? That much made sense, because being able to see through himself was not normal at all.

Gulping dryly, Jean made himself stand. His legs quivered under the tension that made his limbs as taut as a bow-string. He wrung his hands, rolling the words over and over in his mind: _it's not real, it can't be real, you're okay, it's not real, it's not real, it's not_ real-

As he stood in front of the mirror again, he closed his eyes tight, breathing shakily. He gripped his hands into tight fists, as he braced himself. It couldn't be real; it's highly probable it's just a trick of the eye, right?

He cracked open his eyes.

Looking at his reflection again, his breath caught in his throat. He felt hope leave his body, as panic coursed through his veins like an electric shock; it was no trick of the eye. It was no hallucination. Sadly, it was all too real; he could see through himself.

His heart felt like a leaden weight he never knew existed. Dejectedly, he lifted a hand to touch the mirror; the last thing he needed was to be able to walk through things. To his surprise, he could feel the cold glass underneath his fingertips - he sighed in relief. At least he could feel.

 _But what do I do now?_ He thought suddenly. He involuntarily shivered, as the thought echoed in his mind:

_What do I do now? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?!_

He felt his whole world crumble; he felt the foundation on which he stood slowly wear away, until he was falling, falling, _falling_. At that moment, he felt so scared, afraid, so _vulnerable_ , that his mind stopped functioning all-together. He felt fear slowly clog his insides, threatening him to go insane. He started pacing the length of the shop over and over, trying to solve the mess he was suddenly in, trying to make his mind on his next move, trying to rationally and calmly _think_. More than once while pacing, he had peeked at the mirror to check, whether whatever that had happened to him was real. (And sadly, it was.) He started pulling at his hair in a gruesome mixture of panic and helplessness; he had never been a good decision maker, and in these kinds of decisions, he was hopeless.

A few minutes of aggressive pacing turned into a couple of hours. He glanced and saw the clock strike eight o' clock. His gaze lingered there for a moment longer, until he realized with a start. He gasped: the shop would open any minute.

His mind started short-circuiting again as he felt panic surge through him. He ran fingers through his hair worriedly as thoughts whizzed past his mind; _what do I do, what do I say, what do I do, what do I do, what should I_ do-

 _Run_ , a voice whispered, in the recesses of his mind.

Run? 

 _Yes; run,_ _Jean_ , the voice whispered back.

But... But why?

 _Because here, the witch will just attack you again. You don't have time; you need to run from here before anyone finds out,_ the voice explained. The whisper was soft, but it echoed within Jean's mind. 

Indeed, he did not have time; Aunt Petra would enter the shop any minute, and she would lose her mind if she took in his state. And it scared him more, because she wouldn't believe it; she was never a strong believer of the supernatural. Since she would not believe his story, she might even think he had gone crazy - and she could reject him.

He stopped in the middle of the vacant, eerily empty shoe-shop. The first few rays of sunlight entered through the diamond-shaped glass-windows, shrouding everything in pale, yellow light. A few rays struck Jean's body. He could feel the familiar warmth seep inside of him, but when he turned around to look at himself in the mirror again, he saw the rays pass right through him. As the beam of light persisted, he could have sworn his being grew even fainter - he could see the bench behind him, he realized grudgingly.

If I leave, what will my family do?

 _Hiding your condition will be harder with every passing day,_ the voice reasoned. _Then, everyone will find out, and their reactions won't be of any help. They might end up rejecting you._

Jean looked at his hands, in helplessness. He could see the wooden floor through his open palms, he noted. He shivered again - even when the air started growing warm and stale.

 _Besides, people won't realize your absence. They'll get used to one less nobody_ , the voice stated, the husky voice lingering around his thoughts, like poison.

A few moments passed in steely silence once again.

Then, he closed his hands in to hard fists, as he made his final decision.

 

* * *

 

Now Jean understood the importance of having a kitchen right above their shop. 

Though the girls always enjoyed having tea up there, he never really understood its point other than that. But as he loaded an empty bag with heels of bread, cheese, and a few pieces of salted beef, he found the kitchen to be much, much helpful than anticipated. He filled an ancient water-skin they had with water, and looped it around his neck. As he made his way downstairs, he picked a moth-eaten, grey woolen cloak from the coat-hanger, and pulled it over the tweed jacket he wore previously. Then, he pulled out a spare piece of paper, along with a quill and ink. He wrote to his aunt, saying that he had been victim to a foreign illness, because of which he had to leave Trost in haste, to find its cure. In the end, Jean made a point to her to give his mother those red shoes he had worked on, if she'd be kind enough.

After rechecking the letter, he felt a queer sadness pull at his heart. He did not know what he was sad for more; the fact that he was leaving, or the fact that his people wouldn't miss him in the first place.

He swallowed down the empty sadness, as he shrugged his bag over his shoulder, pulling his lucky red cap over his head tightly. Without another glance at his reflection, he left. The bells softly jingled as he closed the door - maybe for the last time.

 

* * *

 

 

Jean had made his mind to run far, far away from Trost - as far as he could manage. The step after was something he chose to plan later; once he'd leave the town safely. 

As the sun rose high up in the sky, the tiny town of Trost slowly started waking up. People started entering the silent streets in pairs or groups, most of them opening their shops for the day. Lazy men yawned widely and scratched at their backs as they opened up the doors and windows of their shops. A few women could be seen as well, drying their laundry, watering their plants, or just sharing and laughing at some fresh gossip that ran in the neighborhood like the common cold.

As the people on the streets thickened, Jean silently pulled his cloak over his head, trying to hide his rather peculiar condition. Like that, his began his trek to the edge of town, winding his way through narrow alleys, groups of people and regular traffic that clogged the tinier roads. He deemed it best to walk out of Trost; he didn't have enough money for a train-ride in the first place, and besides, he would draw more attention around more people. After another half an hour, he stopped right at the edge of Trost - well, not exactly the edge; he had yet to cross the two large railway tracks in front of him, blocking his path with trains.

He stopped to catch his breath. After a few moments' pause, he looked to his right. He saw a wooden bridge, that passed over the rusty railway tracks. He could see the sturdy figure holding a few people, who crossed over hurriedly. Below, he saw some trains trailing behind for repair, while the ones standing in front were the prouder ones, that were ready to roll. As Jean made his way over the wooden stairs, dark smoke puffed out of one of them, ready to travel distances.

He had crossed half of the bridge easily, until he heard a familiar voice from beside him:

"Jean?"

It was Connie, he realized with a start. _Oh no,_ he thought, _what would he do now?_

Thankfully, before he could turn and answer, a train's whistle blew loudly, and a more thicker plume of grey, sooty smoke clouded the bridge again, blocking their visions for a good while. Jean made his way forward again, trying his best to escape his friend's gaze, but he just wouldn't budge.

Connie spoke again, spluttering this time, "J-Jean! Man, I can't even see you in this smoke. Its as if you've gone invisible! _Hah_!"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that statement. _You can bet on that, Connie._

But Jean had to get Connie out of his hair, and fast. He was a good friend, but his new condition was not something he could share with everyone, no matter how near or close that person may be.

"Oh, uh, Connie!" Jean exclaimed, but kept his face hidden within the cloudy folds. He started violently coughing, as he spluttered, "I really wish I could talk but-" He paused to add some more theatrical coughing, and then spoke, "-but I've gotten real sick, and I need to find a good doctor, and quick!"

"Can't you find one here? I know of one-"

"Oh, I tried, but they can't cure me!" Jean cut his friend's speech hastily. The smoke started thinning as he stood there for longer. Before it would thin too much, he turned around and stumbled ahead. He shouted then, "I'll be back soon; farewell!"

"Oh, um, okay. Farewell, then!"

Jean didn't even pause to hear him properly, for he ran.

 

* * *

 

"This is so _unfair_!" Jean complained loudly, his mouth stuffed with bread and cheese. 

It had been several hours since he left Trost. After encountering Connie in such a risky atmosphere, Jean all but quickened his pace, trying to leave the town as quickly as he could. Once he did reach the edge of the town, however, he had to decide where he would go next. As he had stood on the lone street that marked the end of Trost, he seldom found some place or some track worth following; to his right, existed thick, dense forests that led to no place in particular. And to his left, he saw the huge, green rolling hills, topped with white clouds - some as small as specks, others larger than lakes he'd seen. Jean recognized those hills; those were the Lands of the Wasted.

There was nothing behind him, and everything risky beyond; he had worried his lip in tension more than once when he tried deciding his next route. He had stood there, as still as a mountain, contemplating his utter lack of good choices. To his right, lay forests so thick he was sure he'd lose his way. To his left, existed lands where only the evil-spirited beings dwelled. Both choices were equally daunting, and equally dangerous.

But he had seen The Castle That Moved in those lands, right? Maybe that wizard could help him, he thought hopefully. If not him, then some kind witch or wizard would help cure him.

A forest where he knew he'd lose his way easily; a land where only the supernatural existed; both choices sent cold chills of dread down Jean's spine.

Gulping down his throat dryly, he had turned to his left.

And now, he supped on his cold meal of bread and cheese, sitting over a smooth rock, jutting out of a green, grassy hill, shorter than the rest. The sky had begun to darken a little, a pinkish hue bleeding across the sky. Clouds began to vanish, but he still saw some that bordered the more-distant hills - as if they were glued together. As the sky had begun to darken, he felt his chest feel heavy and constricted with dread; though he was far from Trost, he wasn't far enough.

"I had expected to leave Trost behind me before night, but it feels like I've barely moved!" he complained, to any of the nameless Gods up above; some higher entity with supreme power that would help Jean through his uneventful trek through the Lands Of The Wasted. He expected some reply, or _something_ , but all he heard was the distant whistling of the cold air that blew over him. He huddled in his cloak some more, swallowing down a swig of water from his water-skin.

As the silent wind persisted, Jean heard a whimper.

He stilled; maybe he imagined that noise...?

This time the whimper was accompanied by a silent, huskily-drawn out growl.

He felt fear cling to him like a leech, sucking warmth out of him, replacing an empty, gaping mass where only fright existed. Then, he heard the growl again; this time much shaky, and strangely - it sounded wounded. Jean felt a sweat gather at his brow. Mustering up some semblance of strength, he turned his head to his left slowly, _slowly_ , until he saw the source of the noise:

It was a she-wolf; a graceful one, he noted. But then she stumbled out of a nearby bush, her limping gait depicting that she must be hurt. Her thick fur was a deep grey, and it was matted with mud in most places. She had sharp eyes as black as night, that bore holes into Jean when they landed on him. As soon as he had stilled, so did the wolf. He was about to turn and run away, but then he saw the wolf stumble, and fall to her side, a weak whimper emitting from her teeth. Jean leaned forward a little, and to his shock, found red blood pool beneath her.

Strangely, Jean could not control himself after that.

With slow, nimble steps, he approached the wounded animal, extremely intent to make her feel safe rather than anxious. After a few steps, Jean saw her eyes snap at him. For a dreadful moment, she even bared her teeth. But then her body shuddered in pain, and the spasm made her growl deep in her throat, her eyes slipping shut. Jean took the moment of her weakness to kneel beside her. Upon closer inspection, he noticed how her magnificent fur almost glowed like silver under the dimming sun, the pale ripples running through her with every shaky breath she took.

He trailed his eyes to her neck, and then down below her stomach. There, as he saw her stomach pressed against the green grass, his eyes caught the dark splotch forming below her coat.

The wolf was still silent. It did not feel Jean's presence next to her. Inhaling deeply, he touched her back softly. The animal under his fingers shivered. He even saw how her hair stood on their ends at the sudden gesture. But then slowly, slowly, he saw them settle back again, calm as still water. Her eyes were still closed, Jean checked.

He ran his hands through the silvery fur, carding the warmth under and through the spaces of his fingers. The gesture must have calmed her, for she shuddered softly. The hum that accompanied the shiver showed that she enjoyed it. Still rubbing her back in slow, smooth circles, Jean edged his other hand under her stomach. The skin there turned taut beneath his fingers - almost in resignation, in danger, in fear. But he didn't stop there. He lifted the warm skin, and saw the wound for himself; there was a wooden peg that had been dug into her right hind-leg, folded beneath her, and judging by it's depth, it must have hurt her.

Feeling a wave of sorrow wash over him for the poor she-wolf, Jean pushed at her stomach a little more, urging her to roll over. And as if she had read his mind, she rolled onto her back easily, but her eyes were still shut. Still moving on that moment, Jean touched the peg gingerly.

"I'm just going to pry the peg out, okay?" Jean found himself whispering to the she-wolf. As soon as the words left his lips, the wolf's eyes opened. Her deep black eyes bore into his, and he waited, waited, waited before making any initiative step, to keep from displeasing her.

And then, her head bowed a little, almost as if she were nodding. Then her eyes slid close again, her body immobile once more.

Taking it as a sign of progression, Jean held the peg by his right hand. His left one was still on her fur, now rubbing in slow, soothing circles, to comfort her gently. As soon as his hand gripped the wooden stake tightly, the she-wolf growled, baring her sharp teeth. But he didn't stop there; he kept on whispering little encouragements to her, as he wiggled the stake. The wolf kept on growling and whimpering in pain as he tried to pull it out. Grunting, Jean finally pulled it out from her, with a wet squelch. As he did, the she-wolf _howled_ ; a howl so pained and hurt. Strangely, it felt as if she were calling someone mournfully - her rumbling sound somehow emitted loneliness.

Jean quickly washed the wound and the mud bordering it with his water. He even managed to clean her coat, removing caked mud and leaves that stuck to her precious hide.

The wolf's breathing was labored, as she took in her  the fresh spasm of pain. But she could survive, he confirmed. Jean cleaned his hands with the water he had, washing away the dried blood and dirt in between his fingers.

While doing so, he spoke up. "You're okay now," he said, "It was just a little scratch. You're good to go now." Jean shook his hands, dried them up, and looked back at the she-wolf. This time her breathing was back to normal, and her eyes were open; those deep, black orbs stared into his, as if conveying a silent message - a message Jean couldn't quite decipher.

"Hm," Jean hummed thoughtfully, "What could I call you?" Once again, he took in her figure, and he clearly saw how graceful she looked after cleaning her up. This time, her coat rippled with brilliant, silver lines, and she stared almost like a lady, with her straight neck, her bowed head, her hooded eyes... How about...

"How about ' _Lady_ '?" He asked the she-wolf. She merely _humph_ -ed, licking at her paw almost thoughtfully, staring off over Trost with her longing gaze. Jean took that as a sign of her acceptance, and so he named her 'Lady'.

He sat there for a while, just existing with the she-wolf by his side. He could hear her labored breathing go softer, until the pain had finally subsided. After making such a grave decision, Jean had feared he would never see someone ever again; he had convinced himself that this trek of his would be one where he'd be alone, possibly for years. Though the fact was pretty obvious, it still made Jean feel empty. It made him feel gloomy, to be the only one walking down his dangerous track. But seeing the she-wolf, helping her get better, merely running fingers through her warm coat was enough to replace the empty feeling, even if for a little while. The utter warmth Lady radiated was what Jean welcomed; the hills felt colder as evening shifted to night. But he sat there longer, and leached her soothing heat into him. And there, he realized he didn't want to leave her side. Though she was just a wolf, wounded in her leg, she was the only companion Jean felt worth having.

But he knew she couldn't stay by his side for long; Lady was a wild-creature, and needed space to hunt, to chase, to run, and to live. " _Living_ " was not something of a leisure Jean could afford, given his current state. So, grudgingly, he climbed on to his feet, and turned around. He shrugged on his back-pack, and continued moving; he had stayed put for too long, he realized, as he saw a few street-lights pop up from the streets of Trost below him. He had to stay somewhere far away from the town, and fast, or else more wolves like Lady could catch his scent - and most probably attack him.

He had moved a few paces away, when he heard the same whimper from behind him. Jean turned, and saw Lady standing on her feet again. This time she didn't stumble; she held her being strongly, as she trained her eyes at him.

"Lady, you better move back to your pack now." After saying that, Jean turned again and resumed his pace. This time he heard paws softly pressing against pebbles, trailing him. He stopped and turned again, seeing the wolf following him.

"Come on, Lady-" But Jean stopped himself short; her head was bowed, and so was her tail. Her whole gait showed the fact that she was in fact surrendering herself; it was then that he understood - maybe she didn't have a pack. Why else would Lady be found wandering and wounded alone in those hills? Maybe she didn't belong anywhere; _maybe she was just as alone and lost as I am,_ Jean thought solemnly.

But then the she-wolf raised her head, her ears perking up attentively. She bore her eyes into Jean silently, just staring at him. He was about to shoo her away, when she turned around abruptly, and ran into the woods.

Jean was confused beyond comprehension at her sudden vigor; just a few moments ago, she had been wounded by a stake to her foot, and now she was bounding back to the woods as if it never happened. He stayed there, shivering in the cold night air that blew over him, trying to see where Lady went. He had expected her to go back into the woods, where she could find something to eat, or some place to sleep. She did make her way towards the edge of the forest, climbing over boulders, nearing those tall trees, but then she just stopped. The she-wolf turned, and looked at him. It was after several moments that Jean read her movements - she just stared at him quietly, her tail waving impatiently...

"Y-you want me to... To follow you?" He asked, raising his voice.

Lady didn't answer, for she bounded into the woods.

Jean exclaimed in surprise, as she all but vanished. He was even more surprised when he felt his legs move, to follow her into those darkening woods.

As he climbed over boulder upon boulder, he saw the dark trees looming over him. As the night grew black, the forest grew darker. Once Jean reached the top, he stopped to rest his labored breath right in front of the first few trees. There, he saw how their branches made eerie shadows over the grassy floor, extending like twisted, gnarled hands, greeting him into its darkness.

But then he saw a sliver of silver in between the black trunks of the trees, and then he saw Lady, still waiting for him. Jean gulped dryly, as he took the first step inside the daunting forest.

 

* * *

 

Had he been walking through those woods for a few moments, or many hours? Time felt fuzzy and muddled for Jean. 

No matter how many twists, how many detours, how many routes they'd take, Lady would still keep moving forward. The she-wolf dared not stop for even a second; she kept on slipping through bushels, jumping past sharp trees, and bounding through dense branches, as calm as still water, and as swift and accurate as an arrow, strung by the best bow-man. Though the path was easy for her, it was just as tiring and exhausting for Jean; he gained so many cuts and bruises from the strange obstacles in those woods, he had lost count. Even his feet were sore. Still, he knew better than to stop following the she-wolf in front of him; she knew of the woods more than Jean, so all he could do was move forward.

As he ducked beneath a thick branch, he smelled something - something like smoke, with traces of soot, and warmth.

"Is that... Is that a fire?" He asked, incredulous to the prospect of a homely cottage in the midst of such dangerous lands. Nevertheless, the prospect of a home _alone_ was enough for Jean to quicken his pace, until he was only three paces away from Lady.

The smell of a fire grew thicker around him as he moved forward. To his relief, he even saw how the trees in front of them started thinning; they were almost near the edge - the forest was about to end. As soon as those trees thinned, Lady ran faster; she did not wait for him, for she bounded on forwards, getting lost within the shadows the trees threw over the dark floor.

Jean suddenly felt how alone he was, in the midst of the creepy forest, and thus broke into a trot. As the wind howled, the noise of rustling leaves surrounded him, almost following him wherever he went. It sent a cold chill down his neck, and then he all but ran. His steps quickened even more, and his legs started aching as he ran faster, his breath coming in short pants. The trees in front of him grew less dense. The darkness slowly began to fade, and he could see stars bright in the night sky.

But then he saw something even more peculiar; he saw a bright, white light, blinking at him through the narrow woods around him. But he did not stop; he ran, and ran, until he stepped outside the wretched woods.

And once he did, did he see the source of those lights for himself:

Those two lights were no ordinary lights; they were big, bright and attached onto something much, _much_ larger. It suddenly loomed over Jean - a structure so huge, so gigantic, it easily dwarfed his being. It moved with the help of four spindly legs it stood on. He focused his eyes on that unusually large thing, and it was only till he heard its strange, familiar metallic creaking noises, did he realize...

It was the _Castle That Moved_.

He gaped at its true enormity, as it loomed closer and closer. He must have been utterly mistaken to have seen the castle from afar and call it huge; from near, the castle was truly enormous. It easily dwarfed the tallest tree or creature it passed. From where he stood, he could also clearly see it's metallic walls, layering over one another, until it curved at the top, to meet in a mighty dome, crowning the whole figure. As the castle stepped a little closer, he could see how rust spread in every hidden corner. Within them, he saw many windows as well, glassed and bordered with wood. From here and there, he could see tiny chimneys, puffing out smoke sneakily. The two lights in front almost looked like eyes, to look through the night's blanket of darkness, he noted. To his horror and surprise, he saw a huge opening just below the lights, cut horizontally, and lined with pieces of rusty, blunt metal - and from where Jean stood, it looked like its _mouth_.

With every heaving step the castle took, the ground beneath him rumbled with a loud _thud. Thud, thud, thud_ , it stepped. With every _thud_ , it grew closer to Jean. He could not find it in himself to move - he could not stop staring that that gigantic castle.

With a loud, deafening _thud_ , the castle stood before him. With another, Jean fell to his knees under its intensity. And with another, the castle walked over his crouched frame. And then it stopped.

Jean quivered beneath its large, dark shadow, scared to be squashed like a bug (that kind of death was extremely vain and meaningless, he noted to himself). He stayed still for a second, then a few more. He tilted his head to his side, to stare at the castle's legs; they were rusty, yet strong enough to hold an entire house on them. Deeming it safe enough, he looked up at the structure. The metallic base could have covered an entire street of Trost; it was so _huge_.

But then the castle suddenly _sagged_. The creaks, screeches and scratches of rough metal against metal pierced Jean's ears, echoing so loudly it could have turned him deaf, if he hadn't covered his ears sooner. He heard a sharp, intense whistling sound. When he crawled out from underneath the castle, Jean saw how steam billowed from every chimney that stuck out of the structure, making it seem like a giant cloud for a small moment. It's mouth fell open, as it sighed in a rusty echo - as if it felt tired after a long trek.

Without a moment's waste, the castle stood on its legs again, and took off. With one step, it stepped over Jean completely, peacefully making his way onward. It had made only a few feet away from him, that he felt a little tug from his front. He looked down, to see the she-wolf, Lady, pulling at his cloak with her teeth.

"What are you doing, Lady-" he complained, trying to pry his cloak out of her mouth, but she wouldn't budge; with a threatening growl, she dug her teeth deeper into the cloth, and continued to tug harder, right towards the receding Castle That Moved.

Her sudden spur of insistence just wouldn't stop, Jean thought grudgingly. _Could it be..._

"Do you want me to go to that Castle?" He asked, with a little uncertainty.

Only then did the she-wolf leave his cloak, sitting on her haunches patiently. She lifted her head, and then bowed it; like an act of nodding.

 _Oh, dear._  

"Are you crazy? How could I go there..." He let his question trail away with the blowing wind, snapping at his clothes. He looked around him, then behind him; there was nothing but darkness surrounding him, closing in as the hour struck later. He had no other place to go - he needed to stay somewhere for the night. Once again, he turned to the woods he made his way through; it was impossible to retrace his way through those trees. If he could retrace his footsteps back to Trost... But no, he can't go there, he can't. His situation was too dire to go back.

He turned back to look at Lady, but she had already left, running after the Castle that moved onward.

Sighing away, he pulled the cap around his head tighter - for a stroke of luck - and ran after her, and the Castle.

Thankfully, the Castle moved almost lazily, taking long, slow strides at a time, so it was not long before Jean had caught up with it, as it paced ahead. Now it traveled only a few feet away. He saw Lady bounding towards the structure to his right. That way, wolf and man kept pace with each other's speed. As he ran nearer, he saw how a lamp above lighted up a lone, wooden, almost homely door, that jutted out from behind the castle, like a tiny tail. It even had a stoned platform for feet to land on.

His chest hurting with every stride he took, he reached out for the black railing that jutted out next to the door. However far he'd reach, his fingers just couldn't slip around those iron holdings. The castle jolted violently with every step it took, and it made his feat harder. He was almost about to give up, when he felt a warm push from behind him. Before he knew it, Lady pushed Jean up the stone steps below the door, with the help of her muzzle. He yelped loudly, keeping a hold of his cap, until he felt the hard stone step beneath him, and a wooden door in front.

He clutched on to the railing tightly, to keep him from falling back again. He turned and looked at Lady, who slowed her full-fledged run into a jog. He could see how her tongue lolled out of her jaws, showing how immensely tired she felt. As she slowed even more so, Jean called out:

"Well, I'll head inside now! I don't think I have to worry about Mr. Bodt eating my heart - he won't bother with an invisible, simple-minded man like me!" With a wave of his hand, he bellowed, "Take care, Lady; I hope to meet you again!" With that, he waved at her figure, when she finally stopped. The pale moonlight struck her fur even from this growing distance; he could see a speck of silver amidst the darkness that fell thickly over everything falling behind the mighty Castle That Moved.

As the she-wolf finally disappeared into the night, he turned and pressed his hand over the golden door-knob. The polished metal was cool under his skin, and with a slight twist to the left, it opened.

The ancient door creaked open a few feet, letting Jean see a flight of stairs ahead of him, washed in a warm, orange glow. He leaned a little more, peeking around for a better look, but the narrow flight of stairs led only upwards. He had no choice but to move forward, he thought, gulping down his bubbling anxiety.

As he clicked the door close behind him, he could have sworn he could hear a silent howl - a loud, deep howl, resonating long enough for him to hear clearly, the sound itself tinged with a feeling of pride only a wolf could feel, along with an underlying feeling of loneliness; a loneliness Jean knew all too well.

As soon as the door closed shut, the first thing he noticed was how the ground stopped moving underneath him. Outside, you could see and feel the castle sway and jolt with each staggering step, and the same was expected withing the holds of this castle - only the exact opposite took place; the floor underneath him, the walls - nothing moved, or even remotely quivered. With another intake of breath, he stepped onto the first step.

He climbed the flight of stairs quickly, and landed onto the top soon enough. He glanced around him slowly, taking in his surroundings. The room was... It was normal enough; it was spacious, with a kitchen to his immediate left, and a large table to his right, cluttered full with books, wooden chairs lining it. On the table, Jean could see books of all kinds; books larger than his torso, and books smaller than his palm. There were even books that seemed older than Time itself, their open pages yellow and crinkled. The second thing he noticed was how hastily they all were piled over the whole table, inked pages and pieces of parchment spilling out of the edges - some even falling to the ground around it.

He glanced farther in to the room, and saw nothing much else around him, other than another set of stairs against the opposite wall, and a fire-place in the middle of the room, with a cozy, wooden seat in front of it. Jean could see a few heated embers within the huge piles of white ash, glowing, and spreading its faint light across the expanse of the room.

Feeling his legs cramp underneath him, he walked towards the seat. He saw how dim the fire was, and so lifted a few logs near it, and fed the fire some wood, for it to light up more. Seeing healthy flames shoot up from the logs he fed, he resumed his seat. He sighed heavily when he sat, breathing away his cramps and bruises he earned from his tiresome trek through out the whole day. The flames in front of him were so warm, making him feel as if he were home. They rose higher with the passing time. He felt his eyes droop a little. He even dared to lean back, and close his eyes, smiling as he felt a familiar, comfortable warmth overcome him. _This feels really nice_ , he thought.

But as soon as he closed his eyes, he heard a voice speak, "Damn, now that's a nasty spell."

He cracked his eyes open fast. He believed to have imagined that faint voice, and almost slept again, until he heard a small _tsk-tsk-ing_ sound. He stilled all over when he realized that he could hear it from in front of him. Did he hear that from the _fire-place?_

He lifted his head slowly, and almost screamed when he saw a pair of eyes through those orange flames he once felt comfortable.

He certainly yelped when it spoke again, "So not only are you almost invisible, you can't even talk about it. Nice goin' there."

Jean stuttered in panic, "Th-the fire spoke."

"Um, yes, I did speak. What, you want me to sing too?" It replied, sarcasm lined in every syllable he spoke.

 _Okay, the fire can speak_ , he thought. The fire just spoke. How can a fire _speak_? He started shaking his head vigorously, rubbing at his eyes hard until he saw stars amidst darkness. This time he is surely dreaming, he knew. How on Earth could a fire talk?

"Y-you aren't real, I'm just dreaming, hah-"

"Kid, I'm not a dream. I'm as real as you can get me!"

He stopped shaking his head, and finally stared at the fire. And so indeed, the fire could speak. And it had a brain, enough to form comprehensible replies and even jests at him. He felt as faint as he was; his brain could only digest a few supernatural surprises at a time. He stared back at those black, beady eyes within those flames, making himself see the reality.

His shoulders slouched in defeat, as he asked, "So, what... What are you?"

"I am the fire demon, Calcifer!" It professed, with a fiery burst of flame from its mouth. "Y'know, kid, I can help you break your curse."

Suddenly, Jean was eager of what Calcifer would say. "Go on..." He said, leaning in a little.

"But first, you'll have to break my curse - of being restrained in this castle - and then I'll break the curse on you."

Jean leaned back again, sighing. He lifted an eyebrow, growing suspicious of the fire that spoke: a demon was able to trust him as soon as he entered that castle. _Of course there had to be a catch to that_ , he thought.

"Don't stories say demons aren't exactly good?" He asked.

" _Eh_ ," the demon replied nonchalantly, waving a hand - or a flame - in dejection, "Demons don't make promises."

He _humph_ -ed, and resigned back towards the seat. "Then I can't help you." he stated curtly.

"Oh c'mon!" Calcifer whined loudly, "You have to help me! That mean Wizard Bodt always uses me and treats me like a slave! He wants me to move the castle constantly, then he wants hot water for his bath, then he wants..."

Jean didn't quite hear the rest of it's rambling. He felt the beginnings of sleep tug at his conciousness, and he let himself give in to it, letting himself get lost within a long, calming rest. He felt his eyes droop heavily, and this time he didn't open them - not even when Calcifer called him out over and over.

 

* * *

 

 

"...who is this? Hey, hello! Hello, mister! Get up, already! _Hey_!" 

Jean woke up with a start, and a pair of bright, angry eyes staring right at him.

He yelped in surprise, terrified by this person's sudden appearance. He tried to get up quickly, but he could feel the chair tip backwards with his startling force. The chair had tipped farther before he could regain his balance, and with that, he fell back hard.

He let out a loud grunt of pain, as his head banged against the floor. He sat back up, rubbing his sore head. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and then stared up at the man who startled him to fall back. He was a man, shorter than him, with slightly dark, tanned skin, and darker hair, a shade of dark brown. What was more startling were his eyes - they were bright, big, but his right one was an emerald green, and his left one was a rich, honey-ed golden color, a color he had never seen before.

But the man was still standing over him, and was still angry, he could tell. Though he was shorter, the man was more intense than Jean was, and his two-colored gaze made Jean shrink even more, wanting to disappear from there.

The man leaned closer, his hands landing on his hips. He looked a little more closer, and he saw his eyes squint - the man was suddenly very curious, he could see.

"How come I can see through you?" he asked, his voice deep, and indeed manly.

Before Jean could reply, however, he heard a bell ring. They both turned their heads, and saw for themselves, that the noise had come from the door.

"It's the Rose door!" A voice stated, that Jean realized was Calcifer speaking.

The man released his stare from Jean, and turned towards the door. With a slight _humph_ , he picked at a cloak from the table behind Jean, and waved it over himself. He could see how the man's strong shoulders hid under the thick cloak. The man turned, and shielded his face with its hood. But he was not done yet; he pulled the hood down his face with a yank, and then his face transformed - it turned in to that of an old man's, with a long, grey beard covering half of his face.

But neither he or Calcifer paid the sudden transformation any attention, and Jean was left to gape at how he turned around and walked down the stairs, opening the door.

"Hello?" He could hear the man speak, and he quickly resumed in to conversation with the visitor.

Jean stood on his feet, and looked around himself. It was day time now; he could see the heavy beams of sunlight falling through the windows. Dust floated almost everywhere, he noticed; he could see those particles floating around him heavily. He stood up, and consciously patted the dust off his pants. He took off his cloak, as he looked around a little more, and saw how dirty the room really was; dust and dirt lined everything in his sight. Cobwebs hid within the corners of the walls, and he could have sworn that he had seen something crawl over the floor more than once.

By the time that thought passed through his mind, he heard the door close with a loud bang. He could also hear rushed footsteps, and then the man reappeared again.

"What was it this time, Eren?" asked Calcifer.

Eren - or so he was called - replied, "Ah, it was just a messenger from the Royal Family." He lifted the letter between his fingers, waving it, as he explained, "An invitation, they sent - for Mr. Bodt to help them win the war."

 _So the rumor was true,_ Jean thought with a start. _Even wizards were taking place in the war!_

"Ah, so they called him again?" 

"Yes, its because he had made an excuse last time." Eren explained, shaking his head. "If Master really hates this job of his, then why should he bother? It'll end badly if he keeps up like this." Even Calcifer started brooding in worry.

With that, Eren walked up towards Jean again, and repeated himself, "So, Mister. Who are you, and why are you here?"

"Oh, uh..." Jean started, his nerves already getting the best of him, "I'm J-Jean, and, uh... I was lost in the woods for a long time, and um, uh- I just needed a place to stay. And..." He glanced towards the fire, and said, "And- and I believe I can help clean this place for you! I mean, C-calcifer complained a lot about the dust around him-"

"I did _not_!" objected Calcifer.

"-So I figured I could h-help?" completed Jean. He even teamed a hopeful smile, trying to make his point.

Eren judged him for a while, piercing his sharp eyes in to him. He looked around him, and with a sniff, he said, "Well... This place is pretty dirty..."

Jean waited a little more, as he decided on his verdict.

"Well, I guess its fine then; you can stay." Jean allowed himself to take a sigh of relief, but Eren cut him short, as he poked at his chest with an accusatory finger: "But, don't try any funny business with me, okay? I don't trust you yet, with your... Your _condition_." He explained, waving his hands towards his body to prove his point.

Jean felt suddenly irritated - _what is his problem?_ he thought angrily

"Well, excuse me for having a condition I can't actually solve," he said curtly.

Eren all but squinted, stepping up in front of Jean in a proud bravado, to try to scare him. He lifted an eyebrow, and said, "Well, Mister, sorry to hurt you, but I still won't trust you - not when you barge in the castle without a word at all, and also in a rather odd _condition_."

"Its not as if you have to trust me at all!" Jean fumed. "It was dark and I-"

"I don't care what you went through and didn't, _Jean_ -"

"The last thing I'd need is your _sympathy_ , Mister."

They both stood up to each other, almost nose-to-nose, and they both were fuming. Jean had found out enough to understand that he certainly did not like Eren.

Eren was about to curse some more, before the door-bell rung again - only this time, with a different ring to it.

"It's the Maria Door!" shouted Calcifer.

He gave Jean one last acidic stare, until he turned around. He picked his cloak again, and resumed his disguise of an old commoner. He walked down those stairs, and Jean saw how a colored dial above the door twisted, from red to blue. He had not noticed it before... Once the color changed with a tiny chime, Eren opened the door to greet a visitor; he was a shorter man, with blonde hair, hanging till his chin, Jean saw, as he approached the top of the stairs.

Bu then his gaze lingered outside the window. He saw many more squat houses, crowding amidst narrower alleys still. It ended right at a wooden port, beyond which was a beautiful sea, blue and proud, glittering underneath the shining sun. The sight was almost calming, until he realized - there was no lake when he was outside, amidst rolling hills.

His jaw dropped when he walked up closer, almost pressing his face against the window - this place...

"This place isn't the Lands of the Wasted..." he whispered, mostly to himself. How could they change places miles away from each other in a mere blink of an eye?

"Come on up, Armin, I'll make it for you in a moment." Jean heard Eren speak. He saw how he had abandoned his cloak, talking with the blonde easily, without any need of any disguise. The blonde didn't seem as any threat either; he entered the household comfortably enough. When he reached the top of the stairs, his blue eyes trailed over Jean, and they blew wide. Even Jean stilled in panic, afraid of the frail man's - named Armin - reaction, but he asked a more peculiar question:

"Excuse me, but are you a wizard too?" he asked in fascination.

Jean suddenly felt a spur of hysteria within himself, which made him say, "Um, what if I say... I am?" His voice came out much seriously than he had anticipated. The look of pure fascination Armin showed certainly amused Jean.

He wanted to play along the idea a little more, before they heard Eren grumble from the table he was bent over: "I'd certainly doubt it."

Jean fumed at that, giving Eren a glare he wished would sear at his back. Sadly, it did not do much. Armin continued waiting, and taking over Jean's state silently, until Eren came back.

"Here you go, Armin," he said, handing Armin a pouch. "Sprinkle this over your sails, and good winds will prevail." Armin thanked him profusely, and walked back down the stairs, leaving the castle. Jean followed him, stopping at the door. He dared to take a peek outside - and he gasped, as his suspicions were confirmed; this place never existed anywhere near the Lands of the Wasted.

He did not see the familiar green lands, he did not see any hills, he did not see any sign of a tree anywhere. All he saw were clogged roads, with squared buildings towering over them. Even the people flooding the streets were different; they did not even remotely seem to belong from Trost - they all were strangers. How had they changed places overnight?

"Weren't we in the Lands of the Wasted before this...?" Jean whispered.

Thankfully, Eren caught his question. He replied, "Well, this isn't a moving castle for nothing."

Jean retraced his steps, walking back inside the door. His eyes landed on the dial above the door again; this time, he noticed how there were four different colors separated over it. He saw how a golden arrow pointed at a blue color; the rest were green, red, and black. He glanced back at the door knob, and then at the dial. He started thinking, did they change places by color...?

He bent down, and stared at the knob again. Above the golden sphere, Jean saw a tinier knob; it was so insignificant, it could have easily missed the eye. It was a blue color, he noticed - just like the blue shade on the dial. Placing his hand over that knob, he instinctively turned it to the left.

What he saw next was surprising; the little knob he held changed color, its metal shifting from a bright blue, to a burning red. He then turned the door open, and gaped when he noticed - the scene ahead all but changed; gone were those previous squat buildings, with narrow alleys, and a sea ahead - now he saw tall, tall trees, and taller buildings, with people driving large, long vehicles he had never seen before. The people he saw there were also different; they were of the richer kind, as Jean saw how almost every person wore a cloak made out of priceless silk. The castle was certainly magical, he felt.

He stepped back inside the castle, and closed the door shut again. Feeling a twinge of giddy hysteria tug at him, he turned the knob again, this time turning it green. Upon opening the door, he saw nothing but rolling green hills, going as far as the eye could see, and even farther than that. White clouds hid the blue sky, but the sun threw its light, shedding everything in pure brightness.

"Stop doing that, you'll make me angry!" barked Eren, from behind him.

Jean was too fascinated to care, or even reply. Instead he asked, "Where does the black one lead to?"

"Only Master Bodt knows that," said he, "We aren't allowed to go near it. And step inside already, or you'll lose your head!"

Jean obeyed, stepping inside once and for all. But he was not done yet. He ran up the stairs, turned, and ran towards a glass door. He opened it, and stepped up the gallery ahead. He walked closer to the edge, holding the railings, ending just below his waist.

He saw how high up they were; he stood even taller than the highest clouds, that tucked themselves over proud hills far away. He felt the castle rumble underneath him. He glanced down, and saw how its feet were moving almost methodically, keeping the whole structure upright. As dirty and rusty the whole thing was, nothing could truly match it's magnificence. He lifted his head, squinted his eyes, and saw nothing but greenery ahead of him - hills continued on, white clouds crept over the sky, and he even saw a sparkling lake right at the edge of the horizon, the rippling surface crystal clear even from this distance. The thick, earthy scent of nature made Jean light-headed, and he smiled, truly smiled - despite staying in a strange, strange place. But Jean could not help but feel comfortable, happy, and at home, within the confines of those strange walls. As he leaned down, he smiled even more when he noticed - his hands were solid, for a blissful moment.

As he leaned out a little more, the air whipping at his clothes, he suddenly heard, "Funnily, I don't remember calling a red-hatter here."

The sudden presence, along with the jolting of the castle, caught him by surprise. His fingers fumbled, his legs slipped, and the castle heaved, and before he knew it, he was falling.

A cry escaped his lips, screwing his eyes shut, as he braced for impact - or even sudden death. But as soon as his legs left the wooden floor from underneath him, he suddenly stopped.

He stopped in mid-air.

He opened his eyes a little, and saw how he was standing upright - except his legs dangled over mid-air. He gasped in surprise, kicking his legs upright, grasping for something to hold, something to anchor himself onto - something - but all he touched was air. Below him was imminent death, the ground moving with each step the castle took; and ahead of him, he saw a beautiful man, with freckles over his cheeks, and his hand extended, towards Jean's body.

His jaws dropped in surprise.

It was...

It was the stranger; the stranger that saved him in the alley, a day ago. It was the same stranger who made him walk on air - it was the same stranger that made him feel free.

Words and emotions alike clogged at his throat, each syllable fighting for the next, and he could not speak. He could not speak in front of this man, this man who held the same mint-green cloak over his left shoulder, this man whose eyes glittered the way they did last time - albeit with a little coldness to them; he could not speak in front of this man who had made him feel alive. He stared at the man, right in his brown eyes, and for a second, he saw something glass over them - was it surprise? Was it fascination, or was it... Was it familiarity? Jean did not know which one he wanted it to be.

The moment went as soon as it came, and then the same stranger cocked his head to one side, silently looking at Jean. After a few moments of eerie stillness, the stranger flicked his wrist, so that Jean was being pulled closer. He felt his being move forward, forward, until his feet stopped over the railing.

Suddenly, the castle jolted again with another staggering step, and he almost lost his footing again - until he felt a strong arm around his waist, catching him. With a start, his hands landed on his broad shoulders, and when he looked into his eyes in utter surprise, Jean suddenly felt nostalgia fill him up. The freckled stranger looked down at him, but he could see no emotion across his face; there was nothing beneath the twitch of his mouth, nothing beneath the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, and nothing beneath his big eyes. His mere stare felt hollow.

Then abruptly, he turned around, walking towards the gallery door again, and Jean somehow felt... cold; cold, but mostly embarrassed - falling outside the castle was no way to greet a wizard, he realized sheepishly, tugging at his cap.

As Jean stalked back inside the castle, he heard Eren talking to the stranger around mouthfuls of bread.

"-this guy, called Jean, came in here around night, I reckon. He was lost, he said, so he ended up here. But he said he could clean around this place, so I guess he's alright." Eren paused to swallow thickly, and then said, "Well, not much happened after that. And, uh- oh! You got another letter, Master Bodt-"

When Jean heard that, he gasped loudly, and instantly clapped a hand over his mouth - not only was this man his savior, he was-

He was Master Bodt. He was the Wizard, Bodt - Bodt of the Castle That Moved. Bodt, the Mighty Wizard of The Castle That Moved... saved me.

Both their eyes snapped at him in surprise. The stranger laughed at his utter shock, as he said, "It certainly surprises everyone, right? Seeing 'Marco Bodt' - the owner of The Castle That Moved." He completed, waving a hand grandly, fascination.

"And I get 0 credit for moving this damn castle!" cried Calcifer.

"Oh, hush, Calcifer. You know I am indebted to you." He replied nonchalantly. Jean saw how Calcifer rolled his eyes within those flames.

The stranger - or, Marco - threw the letter among the huge pile of scrap paper over the already-crowded table. He then placed his coat over a spare chair. His white dress shirt underneath was still crisp and clean, he saw. Leaning against the table, he folded his arms. He looked up and down Jean's figure, and asked, "So, how did you end up like... This?"

"Well," he said, "a witch came and-"

As soon as Jean began, he felt something tug his lips close. He tried again, but he- he could not speak. He mumbled and shouted behind his shut lips, even prying them open with his fingers at one point. Marco was laughing at him, and it made Jean burn with anger and frustration - _he didn't have to laugh at that,_ he thought angrily.

"So the spell can't let you speak, can it?" asked Marco in between chuckles. He found his troubles too amusing, so Jean gave up the attempt, glaring at him. But he nodded.

Marco only hummed in response, staring at Jean closely, as he rubbed at his chin in thought. Marco, the Mighty Wizard, silently judged him, boring his eyes into him. Moments passed by in nothing but silence once more.

Jean broke the silence, by asking, "So, c-could I stay...?"

Wordlessly, he shrugged, standing up, as he did so. He picked his coat again, and walked towards the stair-case against the wall. As he stepped onto the first step, he said:

"Well, I don't think you can do much damage - and this place does need a redo!" After that, he trained his stare at him again, saying, "But do try to avoid meddling with my things, understood?"

Jean gulped dryly, nodding sheepishly. With that, the wizard climbed the stairs, and before vanishing from sight, he called out, "Calcifer, get the hot water ready, please!" And amidst complaints and curses thrown from the fiery flames, Marco Bodt left.

Jean was really confused - what was that meant to be...?

He turned towards Eren, throwing a questioning glance at him.

Eren sniffed, and said, "Well, that must mean you've got to start cleaning!" With that, even he walked up those stairs, his steps ringing each time he took one.

There was no one in the room except Jean and Calcifer. Looking around himself again, he took his jacket off, sighing away. As he rolled up his sleeves, he said, to no one in particular:

"Well, I have to start somewhere..."

 

* * *

 

hello i have a tumblr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY DONE WITH THIS! I hope you guys like this - I know Eren seems like a douchebag, but he'll have his development too - I promise! And I do not own the character - Calcifer - just to be safe! He belongs to the Ghibli Studios c:
> 
> Do read and review! I like hearing from you guys - they are highly appreciated! :*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little late Eid gift! (Eid greetings to all Muslim readers!<3)  
> Enjoy this chapter! Its got Jean and Eren being the cute dorks they are (with Marco being the flawless person he is huehue) c:

_**Chapter 3** _

 

Jean woke up to the sound of soft chirping of the birds outside, and a fire crackling away in a fireplace warmly – with the silent humming of someone, too.

But then, the humming started growing a little too persistent for Jean’s liking. Grumbling away in his sleep, he hid his face underneath his blanket. All he needed was a few more moments of sleep, of some peace to help melt his aching bones.

But all of it was to finish quite abruptly, when he suddenly heard a sharp hiss.

He exclaimed in fright, body shooting upright. But then he hit his head a little too hard against the wooden beam just above him, in the process. He yowled in pain, rubbing at the sore spot, as a string of curses left his mouth.

“Ah, about time you woke up!” chirped a rather merry Calcifer, the fire demon.

Jean could only reply with tired mutters mumbled under his tongue, as he sat up, legs dangling out of his cot. A chill hung in the air, and he shivered. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, he stifled a yawn behind his hand. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Jean stood up - groggily so - as he tried stretching his sore legs.

“What was that horrid noise?” Jean croaked out.

“That is Master Bodt wasting all my precious hot water for his bath,” muttered the fire demon.

 _Ah, Master Bodt_ _– Marco Bodt_ , Jean thought; the wizard who owned the place, the wizard who saved him, what felt like ages ago.

The trail of thought vanished as soon as it came, as he stopped in front of the glass door, leading out to the balcony beyond. The glass had gone foggy with morning mist, floating over the rolling, green hills going far beyond even where the eye couldn’t see. The sky revealed faint rays of sunshine, where the clouds couldn’t hold it any longer. A pink hue traced it, as birds kept soaring through its endless limits. They still chirped, a hushed, yet merry tune that filled the chilly air, making the hazy, misty morning almost ethereal - like a dream.

Jean wished it was a dream; just a long, tiring dream, where he was still sleeping away, still home. He lifted a hand to sweep away his bangs away from his forehead – as soon as his gaze landed on his skin, however, he was reminded of the cruel reality; he could see the pink sky, the tufts of fog, and the lush green hills perfectly – right through his skin. He truly wished it was all a dream; where he was still sleeping away – still _whole_.  
He didn’t realize how long he had been standing there, just staring at his palm, opened up hopelessly. His brow furrowed deeper as he stared at it longer; he didn’t understand who to hate – that wretched witch who cursed him this way, or himself, for being so weak, so helpless in the first place.

He clamped his fist shut. He sighed through his nose, as he closed his eyes; _don_ _’t let it eat you now_ , Jean thought. _Keep it together. Hide them under fake smiles and hollow feelings. Let them fester you where no one can see_ _– don_ _’t let the others know._

He opened his eyes, and turned to look at Calcifer, who was still humming away happily. Jean crossed his arms in front of his chest, as he mumbled:

“Stop that _humming_ , Calcifer.”

“But it’s fun!”

“It’s not when it’s in the morning.”

“Okay then, fine!” surrendered the fire demon. “All humans are so grumpy in the morning.”

Jean rolled his eyes in reply. He looked around the room; that same room where he found himself one eventful night, when he had been so frightened - so _lost_ \- that he had decided to run away from the one place he used to call home. That trek led him right into a castle;

_The Castle That Moved._

The fact that he was inside a prestigious, well known place like this never failed to send shivers down Jean’s spine. Despite the foreign aura the vast castle had given, he could not keep the feeling of curiosity from bursting within the dread he had been nursing ever since he set foot inside the place. The longer he stared at the blank walls, at the windows giving way to a land that never laid still, the more he could feel the realization sink into him like concrete, making sense with each passing moment: he was indeed _inside_ the Castle That Moved.

But there was a price to his stay there; he had to clean the whole place, just as he had promised the wizard – and owner of the castle – Marco Bodt. When he had accidentally blurted out that suggestion, he had assumed that only a few places needed cleaning, and nothing more.

He didn’t realize just how  _far-fetched_  his assumption was, until he lifted the broom in his hands.

With every passing moment he had gazed at the place around him, he came to notice just how dirty everything was; there was no place free of dust, and the ceiling was practically covered with spidery cobwebs. It had taken the whole of yesterday to remove every bit of dust and dirt from the walls, ceiling and floor. That was one reason why his bones hurt so much; he had to first sweep away the big piles of dust, and throw them out of the castle – for that, even Eren had to work; it had been his job to dust away the vintage table that had been once laden with books of all kinds. Then Jean had put it upon himself to scrub the walls with soapy water, until they sparkled.  
That hard work had definitely paid off, when Jean stared at his work in that morning; no longer was there dirt and grime clogging up those walls. The floor shone under his feet, and so did everything else – _it definitely started to look like a castle_ , Jean thought.

But even so, he still had a lot of work to do; he had yet to clean the whole floor above this one - _that included laundry too_ , he thought grudgingly.

But before that, he needed food.

Jean walked towards the tiny kitchen. He opened a cabinet, and looked around the food they had; bacon, eggs, some bread – _that would be enough_ , he decided. Choosing a few slabs of bacon, eggs, and a heel of hard bread, he closed the cabinet shut. He sifted through the cutlery, and picked out a frying pan, gone a little rusty with age, and a wooden spoon. Just as he walked out, he heard a sharp crackle from the fireplace:

“Oi, oi!” exclaimed Calcifer, its fiery tendrils burning around him like a halo, “What do you think you’re doing with that food?”

Jean raised an eyebrow in confusion. But even so, he replied, “I just- wanted to cook some breakfast…?”

“Well, I’m not going to cook anything for you, remember that,” countered the fire demon.

At that, Jean’s eyes narrowed down to slits.

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s a rule here – no one can use me without the Master’s explicit permission.”

“So will everyone just starve until the Master gives his ‘ _permission_ ’?”

“If it has to get to that point, then yes!”

Jean sighed angrily; his stomach was growling inside him like a beast. He needed something to eat, so that he could do all of the day’s chores. How would he do that if the fire started arguing pointlessly with him like that?

“I have a long day ahead, Calcifer,” sighed Jean, “and I need good food. So you’ll kindly just let me _cook_ -“

“No!”

He had had enough; with a grunt, Jean pressed the flat of his pan over Calcifer, pressing hard to flatten it out. Strangely, the fire demon sure put up a fight; no matter how hard he’d push, the demon was just miraculously able to counter it. It was doing no good; the fire just would not budge.

Thinking quickly, Jean said, “If- if you don’t let me cook, I’ll- I’ll dump water on you!”

That seemed to make Calcifer stutter; for a moment, he stopped budging. Jean took the opportunity, and pressed hard, until he was flattened out – almost, just enough for the demon to stick out his head and protest, panicked:

“It- it would end up hurting more than one being, you should know that!”

 _More than one being_ _…?_

Even so, the flame was still putting up a fight. Deciding it to be the last straw, Jean huffed loudly. He bore his sharp, amber eyes into the flames’ beady ones, and demanded:

“If you don’t let me cook, I’ll tell the Master of the deal you tried to make with me!”

That did everything for Jean; Calcifer stopped pushing, stuttering out words for him to protest, but nothing came to him:  
 “I – I – I should have _never_ let you inside the castle!”

Jean allowed himself to smirk; that was his victory, for now. With one slam, he banged the frying pan against the fire, and sure enough, he felt no resistance – the fire demon gave in.

He sat himself on the stool in front of the fireplace. He had only pressed a hash of bacon against the pan, that he heard footsteps approaching him. When he turned, he saw a really sleepy and disheveled Eren, whose mismatched eyes were still sticky with sleep, and his hair stood up on their ends. Half of his linen tunic was tucked inside his striped pants, and the rest was pulled out. He yawned widely, and rubbed his eyes as he stood next to the table, behind Jean.

Groggily, he spoke up, “Is that Calcifer – how did you-“

“ _’_ _How did he convince me to cook for him_ _’_ , you mean?” Calcifer butted in, “He bullied me!”

Jean chose to laugh in response. He used a wooden spoon to flip the bacon, as it sizzled away, the meaty scent already thick in the air. He said, “Ah, it was nothing.”

The fire demon started spluttering angrily. To change the topic, he quickly asked, “Uh- um, I think tea would do some good. Do you have some, Eren? And some tea leaves?”

Eren nodded, albeit sleepily, as he trudged towards the kitchen. After some loud clangs of cutlery and angry slams of cabinets closing, he came back with a pouch in one hand and a metallic kettle in the other, filled with water. Jean thanked him, and started on making the tea beside the bacon.

It had only been a few minutes, that Jean heard some more footsteps approaching. His breath caught his throat when he heard:

“Hm, so Calcifer actually managed to be obedient for once?”

It was a rather familiar, honey-like voice, floating just above him. Jean’s grip on his spoon tightened unconditionally.

“ _You_ do not have the right to say that, Master!” Calcifer complained hotly, the flames suddenly burning read with the outburst.

Marco Bodt chuckled, standing only a few paces behind Jean. He could almost _feel_ his heat radiating off of him, like it had done back in that alley, when there had been a warm arm around his shoulder; that same arm that had been pressed around his waist, holding his hands-

“Give that to me,” he instructed, and before Jean knew it, the Wizard took his hand within his – and held it like that for just a moment, a moment too long. He turned his head to look at him, but Marco was already staring at the fire intently. It slipped pass as soon as it came, and the wooden spoon left his grasp, as Marco held it in his own.

Jean could not seem to be able to talk just by that mere touch – was it literally sorcery that made his mind go blank all of a sudden, just by his presence? It had to be! No touch as simple as that should be erasing someone’s mind as easily as that.

But the smart wizard had busied himself with frying off the bacon, standing beside him. With the spoon in one hand, he extended the other towards Jean.

“I’ll need the eggs, please; six of them.”

Jean panicked for a blasted moment, almost forgetting where he kept them. His gaze landed beside the stool he still sat on. Blinking a little, he picked up six, one by one, and handed them to Marco; he cracked each one carefully, and let them sizzle beside the bacon – even feeding the remaining shells to Calcifer, who devoured them hungrily.

“Eren, go get the plates, would you?” he ordered. Eren nodded, making his way towards the kitchen again. All that could be heard was the sizzling of meaty juices within the frying pan, as Marco cooked their breakfast.

Suddenly, Marco spoke: “I just saw your work, cleaning this place. I must say, you’ve done an exceptional job,” he said, looking at him, “Let’s hope you’ll do just as good in the upper floor, yes?”

Jean was absently nodding away; this wizard, who had saved him - just praised him. And for a tiny moment, as Jean’s cheeks began to flush, he almost believed in them.  
The wizard smiled softly – maybe he noticed the flush coloring his face. Jean muttered an incoherent “ _thank you_ ”, as he looked down at his lap. His breathing stopped when he glanced at his folded hands; for a flicker of a moment, his skin was solid, _whole_ – had he imagined it…?

But by that time, Eren came in with plates and teacups. Marco had finished sauteing their breakfast by then. He lifted the frying pan, and made his way towards the table, where he started piling the steaming food onto the empty plates.  
Something made Jean stick to his stool there – something made him sit there, not moving at once, as he saw Eren distributing the plates, with Marco now pouring tea into the tea cups. He felt a pang within his chest. There was that sense of home, of belonging, in that scene before him, as the two set up the table; it showed  a feeling that Jean had been trying to forget – a feeling that made his heart hurt. _Would I ever feel as if I belonged somewhere?_

“Oi, Jean!” Eren called out, already tearing his piece of bread in half, “Join in!”

As simple as those words were, he could not help the flutter in his chest. _Could this be that first step_ _…?_

He got up, and sat himself across Marco, who was cutting his piece of bread for himself. Jean stared at the plate of food in front of him, and started eating just as the others began.

“ _God_ ,” said Eren around a mouthful of eggs, “I can’t remember the last time we actually had breakfast like this!”

Jean nodded to him in response, as he shoveled eggs in his mouth, but Marco seemed unfazed. He held his dainty tea cup in his slender fingers, yet he was not drinking it. The fumes lifted from the surface, hovering around his big, perplexed eyes, as it swirled and swirled, until the tendrils disappeared. What could he be thinking about so intently...?

As soon as the words crossed his mind, Marco's eyes snapped at him, asking:

“Jean, do you have something in your pocket by chance?”

He choked around the morsel he tried to swallow. Coughing a little, he asked, “U-um, I don’t have any-“

“Check,” demanded the Wizard.

Afraid, Jean timidly reached around his pants’ pockets. Digging a palm though his front pocket, his fingers brushed past something – a paper, a folded paper.

“I – I found something,” he said, pulling it out. He was shocked to see a dark piece of paper within his clothes, engraved with a rose, in a bright, emerald hue. That emerald almost reminded him of…

“Give it to me,” ordered Marco.

Abruptly, Jean extended his hand forward. Marco reached out for it halfway across the table, stretching his fingers. But the paper was only a few breaths away from his hand, when it suddenly _sparked_.

Jean gasped, withdrawing his hand. The paper suddenly caught fire in mid-air, burning in a puff of dark, deep purple smoke. As the thick tendrils lifted away, the ashes fell to the wooden table. Jean leaned in a little, deeming it safe enough. But then, something else happened - the ashes burned even as they landed. The dust started... carving the wood sharply, engraving a strange glyph into it, with lines he couldn't make out, like some other-worldly language. After burning green, it faded again - but leaving those strange marks behind.

"Is-is that-" Eren started.

"Ancient sorcery," Marco completed. Jean snapped his head towards him in utter confusion, trying to make sense out of whatever that had happened - but he was too focused on staring at the lines etched onto the table, still sizzling slowly.

He leaned into it a little more, and read, " _'O, Man with no heart; surrender thy heart, or thou shalt suffer_ _’_."

Silence clogged the air around them, tense and suffocating. Jean could see the Wizard's eyebrows dig to the center of his forehead, as he frowned at the message - possibly disturbing him.

Well, that was what Jean had thought - for just a moment later, Marco started _tsk_ -ing, shaking his head.

He lifted a hand, and pressed his palm against the message, and all he muttered was, "So much for the table."

Jean did not know whether to laugh at that statement, or just stare at him for being so blunt towards a possible threat to his life. But then again, it did not seem to faze him one bit; instead, he leaned closer, pressing his hand onto the table harder.

Suddenly, the wood underneath his palm started growing red, the heated rays stinging Jean's eyes. It seemed as if every other light inside the room had been dimmed - it glowed bright enough to outshine anything. The heat didn't hurt Marco, for he pressed even more insistently. Even his _eyes_ burned; the same brown eyes that once sparkled now raged with fire, as he narrowed them in concentration. Fumes begun rising from his hands, dark plumes clouding around them. Behind those tufts of smoke, Jean spied a sharp glint - and realized that Marco was _smirking_ , his eyes narrowed down to slits. That wizard didn't seem like the same wizard who once saved him with a charming smile and grace - this one was different; this one was _frightening_.

Marco dragged his palm slowly across the table, scratching the wood. With one last swipe, he lifted his hand - and the strange engravings were gone.

"What was _that_ , Master?" Eren asked breathily.

Marco only shrugged - seemingly calm at the prospect of being threatened to death. But even so, he stood up abruptly. He picked up his food, barely touched, and dumped the contents over Calcifer, who gobbled them up.

"Move the castle a thousand miles to the East, and keep that radius. Try not to get noticed," he ordered the fire demon, as he turned towards the stairs again. Without another word, he walked back up again, vanishing from sight.

There was that stifling silence again, hovering over the two of them, who now only stared at their half-empty plates. As thick as it was, it felt fragile, like thin glass, ready to be broken by a sudden gust.

Eren shattered it, as he poked an accusatory fork at Jean, asking, "Are you _sure_ you aren't some evil wizard?"

Jean only replied with a roll of his eyes, stuffing his mouth with some crusty bacon. Eren hummed in thought, sipping his tea as he did so.

He clicked his fingers, as he said, "Then you're a witch!"

Jean stuttered at that, choking around a piece of bread. "I-I'm not a witch, Eren!"

"Well, you do clean like one."

Jean could not suppress the growl that escaped his lips; Eren could get on his nerves so easily, so frequently at times - just as he did then. But he could do naught, except eat away his breakfast quickly, readying himself for another long day of hard work.

 

* * *

 

 

By mid-day, Jean had finished cleaning half of the upper floor; he had thanked the heavens that the hallways up above were not as dirty as the rest of the house. So, dusting was not too tiring a job. Besides, he had kept himself preoccupied while throwing away loads of clumped dust and dirt out of windows. When he had cleaned around other rooms, he took his time to observe everything around him; the other rooms were smaller and much neater than the rest, he had noticed - maybe they hadn't been used since a long time. That seemed the case, when Jean had to clean out big cobwebs from within them all over again. The walls around the whole castle were bare, too; no kind of picture or even a decoration hung upon them. Even the color of the walls was dull - it seemed dead to him. It annoyed Jean; a place as magnificent as this didn't deserve to be so bleak, so sad.

 _Maybe I'll remind to decorate the place. I could remind Eren, or even Marco,_ Jean thought to himself.

The mere mention of the wizard brought in the conflicting events that had happened during breakfast. It was all that was in his mind, when he was doing the laundry out in the balcony, everything flashing within his mind's eye.  
How had that piece of paper made its way inside Jean's pocket, he did not understand. He never recalled ever putting something as obscure and tiny as that flimsy paper there, before leaving Trost. He had never done anything of the sort. How did it happen, then? And when? As Jean tried breaking that mystery down piece by piece, he was reminded of the way it had sparked, the plume of smoke that lifted off of it, and those sharp, green flashes, scorching lines within the table along with it.

It had been ancient sorcery, Marco had confirmed that much. But even so, that green glinting light reminded Jean of something, those emerald green flashes...

Like an evil stare, and an evil chuckle...

It could be no one else - it was that witch, from the Land Of The Wasted.

It had to be her; no one else could have wanted to threaten the wizard of The Castle That Moved. He even remembered her words, dying out just before he had passed out:

 _“These are my regards to Bodt, you see._ _”_

His head swam when he remembered that moment. He clutched his forehead, blinking back tears of panic, as he recalled the way she had entered inside the shop, that cruel smile she had bared at him – and the cloak she lifted, showing utter darkness beneath it, gaping, pulling at him, and slashing him apart - and the pain…

He clenched his jaw tight. It made sense; that witch had something to do with Marco Bodt – but what? What would he have done, that offended her so much? What crime had he committed that made her so vengeful – vengeful enough to attack a harmless person like Jean? What had Marco done so wrong that she ended up cursing Jean instead?

Suddenly, a rage filled in him, an angry fire that licked his insides. In the end, the fact that he could see right through himself was the reality – not some fairy tale sung to children for them to behave. It was the harsh reality, a price Jean had to pay, but for what? Was it for being there at the wrong time? Or was it for being weak?  
_Ultimately, its all her fault_ , he thought acidly. And it was true; it was she who had turned him this way; it was she who had hurt him, turned him into something odd - something wrong - and it was she who had forced Jean to turn away from his family. She made him run away, alone, scared and lost. It was she who had _ruined_ him. He could never forgive her for that. He could never let her breathe, not after what she made him go through.  
_I will make her pay_ , he promised to himself.

Before he knew it, he was already fuming, breaths coming in short, hurried pants. He was surprised there was not any smoke coming out of his ears – _wouldn_ _’t that be something_ , he thought. A weak chuckle escaped his lips, as he resumed his work, scrubbing away the blotches on clothes with soapy hands.

 _I can_ _’t let her invade my thoughts, not now_ , he thought, as he scrubbed away. He could not let such thoughts ruin him, not so soon – not where someone could see him. That was the last thing he wanted. Clenching his hands around the fabric tightly, he sighed. Besides, he could not let himself get angry so soon, not when he was sitting inside The Castle That Moved, staring off at hills that never sat still – always moving past his sight.

As he scrubbed the dirty linen in his hands, he could not help but think of Marco Bodt’s _reaction_ to that message – it had been even stranger than everything else; he had just _scoffed_ , and complained about the table, completely ignoring the message. Did he have any clue that someone was possibly after his heart – his very _life_?

 _Maybe he was just that audacious, he certainly seems like that,_ Jean thought to himself. Even so, the stiffness with which he had left then, walking up the stairs almost mechanically, it reminded him of the way he had run away from those faceless monsters in the alley. Back then, it had felt like him looking ahead with unshaken concentration, but now, seeing it over the wizard again that morning – it felt a little different; almost wavering, like a gesture of fragility.

As his thoughts traveled as far and wide as the castle had, he was done with the laundry. The sopping clothes, now clean, made a wet pile on the balcony floor. He stood up, rubbing his hands. Now all he had to do was hang them – but where? The balcony was too small, and there was no possible way he could climb up to the top of the castle, just to hang some clothes. He looked around, for some solution – and his gaze landed on an open area, far away, ebbed in between hills.

“Eren?” Jean called out.

He came up soon enough, with a nameless book in his hands – the same book he had since yesterday. He stepped out on the balcony, and asked, “You called me?”

“We need to dry off these clothes,” Jean reasoned, pointing towards that flat land. “Could we stop _there_ , by that lake?”

Eren squinted towards that lake, staring at it. After a few moments, he nodded, leaning into the railings.

“Well, we should. We don’t have any other place for drying clothes,” he told him.

After ordering Calcifer to that direction, Eren stood back outside, next to Jean. He leaned his hips over the railing, wrapping his arms across his chest, with that book against him.

“That lake’s called Star Lake,” he told him, “It’s called so, because legend says that when the world was made, a star fell there first. Some say that that star fell from the heavens above.”

Jean whistled to that tale, fascinated. He leaned down on the railing, his bare forearms pressing against the rusty metal, as he asked, “And do you believe it?”

He replied with a sigh, saying, “I’m not sure myself, actually. But then… wouldn’t it make the world a more,,, more interesting place, knowing that it might be graced by the _heavens_?”

Jean sighed as well. _It sure would_ , he silently thought. A world where evil witches and wizards loved attacking the innocent, where kings loved reigning and attacking the weaker lands didn’t seem appealing. _That tale seemed more attractive, though,_ he thought.

The sky turned a soft, pale blue, as the sun hid away from view. Tufts of clouds still clung up there, however, some still bordering the heaving shoulders of the more distant hills. A soft breeze blew over the pair, and Jean sighed at the cool feeling. Time seemed to have passed by so easily that way.

Jean was the first one to break it, as he asked, “How long will it take us to reach there?”

“Hm, it could take some time,” he shrugged, “Just a few hours before sun down.”

Jean’s shoulders slumped; _that long_ , he thought. He tried suppressing a pout – what would he do until then?

He voiced his question, to which Eren smirked. Jean squinted at him, already growing suspicious of his oncoming answer.

He suggested, “You still have to clean the bathroom,” poking his tongue out from between his teeth.

Jean’s chest almost deflated; he had completely forgotten about that. He started growing red – he certainly could not enjoy _that_ task, he knew.

Before he could whine, however, he suddenly remembered. He started smirking, as he narrowed his eyes back at Eren. He did the same back at him, his green-and-golden eyes glinting with confusion.

“Well,” Jean began, “I’ll have to clean your room first, then!”

At _that,_ his eyes blew wide.

“We had a deal,” Eren countered hotly. “We agreed you would not go near my room!”

“Well if you won’t clean it, then I will have to, right?” Jean ended himself with a nod, as he made his way towards the glass door – which got conveniently blocked by Eren, who outstretched his arms.

“W-wait! I, uh, fine! I’ll clean it!” he stuttered.

Jean let his smirk grow wider, as he folded his arms.

“You’ll have to start away now. You wouldn’t want me _accidentally_ stumbling into your room, now would you?” Jean sang. That was enough for Eren to shut up, and run back inside, taking two of the steps at a time.

Jean let himself have a laugh, as he walked inside the castle.

“Wow,” he heard someone say, “Eren is doing some work, this time. I’d call you a _good influence_ , this way.”

When Jean raised his eyes, he saw that it was the wizard who had said that, as he stood in front of the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest defiantly.

Marco Bodt wore a mint-green coat over his shoulders – the same coat he had worn in that eventful alley once, a long time ago, along with the same dark dress-pants and the crisp, white dress-shirt underneath it. But Jean noticed how the coat was slightly different; this one was embroidered with gold thread, making delicate, intricate designs across its neat collars. The wizard seemed to have trimmed his hair as well, and where his hair had once splayed across his forehead, parted from the middle, now had been combed back, to reveal more of his facial features – and they were as intriguing as they were the first time Jean had seen them; a long, straight nose, and a prominent jaw, with his high cheekbones, scattered with freckles. His eyes seemed bigger, brighter – he could even make out the flecks of gold scattering around the deep brown pools. He was the same as he had been in that alley, so much so it almost felt nostalgic to him, when he felt the blush creep up his neck. Even so, it was… _different._

Without another word, Marco walked past Jean, and stepped down the stairs, leading to the door. Jean turned around, looking at the dial he’d turn to, and the door he’d pick. He assumed from his extravagance that he would go to the red dial, to attend the Royal Highness’s invitation.  
But then, he did something else – he turned the dial to the black one. Everything beyond the little window on the door turned dark, and darker so when the door flung open. All Jean saw was a gaping, deep mass of black nothingness. The wind whistled and howled from beyond, but it was not comfortable; it was loud, and dangerous – it felt _threatening_. It made cold, clammy chills roll down his spine.

But Marco just stared at the emptiness, one foot out on the edge, the other backed away, in safe territory. He turned around, staring at Jean right in the eye.

“Do try not to bully my friends – _or_ meddle with my things. Take it as a reminder.”

Those words were almost cold, and it made Jean feel stunned, fixed in place. He could do nothing except nod.

Marco smiled brightly in reply, but the reaction felt mechanical – too steely to be natural.

“Good,” was all he said, before he stepped out into the darkness beyond. The door shut with a loud bang, and everything fell back into silence; a silence more confusing than suffocating.

Jean let out a sigh he didn’t know he had been holding. _What was that about_ _…?_

“You still have to clean the bathroom, y’know,” muttered Calcifer from behind.

 _Oh, right_ , Jean thought, as he felt his shoulders slump. Gathering his things again, he trudged up the stairs, getting back to work.

 

*

 

“Oi, Jean, we’re here!” Jean heard Eren call.

“I’m coming!” he shouted back.

 _Thank goodness,_ he thought. Finally he could get some fresh air – after spending so much time trying to clean the bathroom, he could hardly bear the strong, pungent stench of perfumes, dyes and _other_ things alike. What had been even more nerve-wracking was the array of bottles and tubes placed on the numerous shelves that he had to sort out. None of them contained the same substance; each had a different liquid or powder in it, some brighter, others more colorful – and plenty were confusing.

He had to remind himself constantly of Marco’s mild threat; of trying not to meddle with his things at all. And so he had tried to clear away most of the vials and glasses with fumbling hands and dry gulps, trying his best to not mess anything up.

That had taken most of his time, anyway, so that by the time he was done, the castle had finally stopped by Star Lake.

The castle heaved itself beside the sparkly lake, its rusty hinges and walls creaking as it stopped moving. Eren opened the door for him, and Jean edged his way out, carrying a bamboo basket, laden with wet clothes. Eren brought in a clothes line, trailing behind him.  
The sun was still in the sky, almost touching the edge of the horizon by now, spreading brilliant hues of bright yellows dancing across its pale blue expanse. Jean gasped when he saw the lake up close; when sunlight struck the waters, it seemed as if a million diamonds filled the Earth, glimmering right before him. A silent gust of wind sighed through the place, winding its way through the tall trees and skirting across the waters’ surface. _Just enough for the clothes to dry_ , Jean confirmed, as he stopped in front of the lake. He even saw pretty flowers of all kinds bordering the lake’s edge, the water rippling around their delicate stalks. Smiling softly, he bent down, and began sorting out the clothes, while Eren tried hanging the clothes line, hanging one end with the castle, and the other across a large tree, with larger branches.

A moment hadn’t passed, that Jean heard something – a rustle, a shuffle. He stopped himself, straining his ears again. Had he imagined it? No, no, it was there again; another rustle, another shuffle, and then – and then a soft _growl_.

Jean looked to his right, slowly, steadily. Beyond, he saw tall trees, their barks clumped together. But _within_ that, he noticed something else; he could hear the soft rumbles from there, he could feel a presence within those woods – and as he squinted, he saw a pair of sharp eyes, hard as onyx stones, glinting at him. Those steely eyes – could it be…

“ _L-Lady?_ ” Jean called out, unsure.

And as sure as the day was long, there came _Lady -_  the she-wolf he had saved once – just a day before yesterday. She seemed as healthy as ever, as she bounded towards him, covering the huge distance in a few leaps. _How did she come here...?_

She landed heavily in Jean’s open arms, as he wrapped her in his embrace. He could not help the chuckle that escaped his lips. It was good to feel her warmth again, that same comforting warmth he had craved once. He ran his fingers through her thick, dark coat, catching the sun like silver would. He rubbed her neck affectionately, earning a lick across his jaw from her side. Jean laughed at that gesture. She kept on wagging her tail to and fro excitedly, as she dug her face in the crook of his neck lovingly - he tried returning the affection as much as he could.

“What the-“ Jean heard Eren exclaim from afar. When his eyes landed on Lady, they blew wide – both in fright, and quite possibly, in rage, too.

“You have a _pet dog_ too?!” he shouted, jogging towards him.

Lady seemed to have disliked that; she growled low in her throat, and bared her teeth ever so slightly. Jean scratched her jaw softly to soothe her, as he replied:

“She’s a _wolf_ , Eren, and no, she isn’t my pet – well, not exactly. I had helped her day before yesterday; poor girl had gotten a thorn stuck to her foot. I – I don’t know why she’d follow me, though…”

Eren nodded, amazed, as he bent down on his knees. He extended his hand, somewhat shakily, towards the she-wolf’s head. Jean was afraid she’d end up snapping his hand clean off of his arm – but surprisingly, Lady bowed her head low, for Eren to stroke her. His tanned fingers carded through her fur slowly, and his eyes shone with affection. Jean could feel Lady hum against her too, as his soft stroking persisted.

“Hm” he breathed, withdrawing his hand, “Well, she isn’t all that bad.”

Jean hummed his response, as he looked up at the sky, again. The sun was inches away from the horizon, yet it could be a few hours before sun down, he deduced.

After a while, Jean and Eren set work to hang all the clothes – and funnily, even Lady came, following Jean’s ankles obediently, as they did their work. She waited patiently as the two men hung one cloth after the other across the clothes-line, following the two with her fixed stare. With her chin tilted slightly upwards, her back straight as an arrow, and her gait as graceful as a statue's, the she-wolf certainly looked _lady-like_.  
“All the clothes have been hung now,” Eren said later, when they were done, motioning towards the dripping clothes they had hung, “So what do we do now?”

Hands on his hips, Jean looked around him once more. The breeze that blew around them persisted the longer they waited. As the wind threaded through his hair, he realized that he didn't want to stay holed up in the castle again; as amazing as a moving castle was, it could get stifling for one, if they stayed inside for too long. Besides, nature felt relaxing to Jean; the breeze, the sighing trees, the sparkling waters of Star Lake, its surface glimmering like gemstones – it all pulled him towards them.

Just then, he smirked to himself - an idea had popped in his mind.

 

 

Jean had decided to plan a little picnic for the two, while they waited for their clothes to dry. He set himself to cook up a few bacon and cheese sandwiches (along with some time spent on coercing a very angry fire demon), while Eren had gone to get a spare mat and some plates, for them to sup on.

And so, with toasty sandwiches in their hands, and Lady seated next to Jean, the two sat on their mat, and watched the sunlight turn the once rather plain sky into an artists’ masterpiece; in one instance, streaks of red bled through blue tinted clouds, and in the next instance, the orange sky gave way to a dying hue of pink, bordering the edges of the horizon densely. Jean could have practically lived in that moment; in that moment, where he witnessed one of the world’s many magnificent moments, he could say that he felt content, whole – he felt _free._

Just like he had on that day.

Merely thinking about that day brought chills through his spine – chills of excitement, of thrill, of the taste of an adventure waiting to happen, his body left hungering after it. But there was nothing he could find that could sate that hunger, that fiery desire. Only momentarily, he had felt a mouthful of that thrill – when he had walked over the world.  
How could he forget that? The way the air lifted him higher, the way the wind passed through his fingers, as soft as silk, and the chills of adrenaline that jarred his bones were sensations he could never forget. Even when he closed his eyes now, he ended up only imagining the breeze around him, under him, as he soared, higher, higher, _higher_ …

…with that wizard just behind him, holding his hands.

That thought too brought chills through him, but he was not sure of what. Was it just an effect of pure adrenaline, or was it excitement? Could it be something else...?

 _No, no, it can't be that,_ Jean chided himself. _Those chills could be of shock_ , he thought; because why would Marco Bodt want to save Jean Kirschtein? It was a question that plagued his mind ever since he set foot inside the castle; why would such a great, powerful wizard, with a castle he enchanted to _move_ , want to save a life as petty as his? Why would such a great somebody want to save a nobody?

As if she had read his mind, Lady placed her head on his lap, looking up at him affectionately. Jean smiled, rubbing her jaw slowly, letting her warmth comfort him.

It still confused him though, the more he pondered over it. His sandwich had gone cold in his hands, as he kept on staring at the Lake's waters pensively. Was it by mere chance that the wizard had wanted to save him, or was it some other reason? Could it be a part of some plan he must have carefully orchestrated? The way his eyes had twinkled when he had stared at him, right at the balcony, before he had vanished... It had shown such a playful light, as if he had known Jean since forever. What could _that_ be?

There were too many _‘if_ _’s_ and _'but's_ clogging his mind, and the fact that he could not answer any single one of them annoyed him. Grudgingly, he took a bite of his sandwich, and chewed it slowly, busying his other hand by mindlessly petting Lady, whose tail kept wagging faster with his strokes. There wasn't much he could do then, except wait for the answers to come at him. That was what his father had advised him, ages ago: to let Time do its duty, and to never rush with things against it - _it would always end bad that way,_ he had explained.

Suddenly thinking about his father made his chest sink; in that moment, he was cruelly reminded of his father's absence - from this world. And what about his family, the family he had to abandon? That word always stung Jean; _abandonment_ \- as if he purposefully did it, as if he had  _wanted_ to leave his family so unexpectedly. _It could never be that way_ , he wanted to scream, _I had to, I had to, I'm sorry, I had to, I had no_ choice _, I'm so sorry-_

"Oi," he heard someone, breaking his anxious trail of thought. He turned his head, to see Eren, continuing, "If you won't eat that, could I have it?"

Jean stared at the sandwich between his fingers. Suddenly, he didn't feel like eating - and so he passed his sandwich to Eren, who ate it straight away. Jean then noticed his quivering fingers - why was he shaking? _It wasn't even that cold_ , he thought. Frustrated, he cursed himself, clenching his fists to stop them from shaking so much.

"Y'know," Eren said after a while, when he was done with his food, "If you continue thinking so much, you'll end up growing white hair."

Jean could not stifle his giggle at that - he  _could be so eloquent at time,_ he thought, _it was funny_.

"Ah, it's nothing, just... Missing my family, I guess..." he replied.

Eren nodded, just... silent. Jean was glad for that; he was tired of stupid _‘sorry_ _’s_ he had gotten the time his father had died; he hated those unwanted wishes, and cold condolences that meant nothing - as if their empty promises could help melt the pain. That was the thing – it never did. Nothing can _fix_ someone's pain; not entirely, at least. Time could heal those sensitive wounds, and someone's presence could _comfort_ it; someone who did not have to speak hollow words or wishes - someone just... _there_. Just _existing_ , sharing one's pain silently, the way he did for him. That much could do enough, and Jean silently thanked him for it.

After a long moment's silence, Eren started, "It must be tough, but... How about you try focusing on something else? A mind's diversion can do plenty."

Jean pondered on that for a moment. "Well, I don't know what else to do when I'm not cleaning..." he replied back.

Eren hummed in thought. Clicking his fingers at once, he picked up that nameless book of his, and shoved it in Jean's hands.

"How about reading?" he promptly suggested. "Its what I do, when I'm bored. We've got enough books to last a lifetime, really. They seem pretty long and tiring, but reading just one page is enough to get hooked to it... It'll be enough to divert your mind! You do know how to read, right?"

Jean scoffed, "I _do_ , but... But I've never actually read that many books, we never had many to begin with."

Eren's mouth turned into an " _o_ " in shock. "Oh my, then you're missing out so much!" he began excitedly, "You're missing out a whole world – of- of knighthoods, fights, betrayals, forbidden mysteries, people both good and evil, love both lost and found – a- a world of _adventure_!"

Jean laughed, "Wow, you really like books, do you?"

He nodded vigorously, "Oh, yes. I might not look like some bookworm, but I love them. It’s strange how the right words joined together can make someone forget their worries, sadness, or even their _loneliness_..."

The way Eren sighed at the end made Jean's eyebrows knot at his forehead in worry. His obscurely colored gaze stared at the waters, but Jean could see something else reflect in those watery orbs, something very familiar - a sadness, a lonely feeling.

Jean licked his lips, before asking, "You... You don't have many friends...?"

Just as expected, Eren shook his head.

Jean let the realization sink into him, as he entwined his own hands in his lap. It was stupid of him, how he had not noticed it before; Eren had no friends to speak of. He’d stay idle half of the time in the castle, too – that was because he had nothing else to do. And besides that, he had always dug his nose deep into a book. He shook his head: all of that was because it was his means to escape reality. He had no one to talk to, after all – he was lonely.

But then, he spoke, “I’ve never had many friends to begin with – well, besides Armin. Other than him, the others never liked me. So I kept myself busy with books. In those pages, in those worlds, I could be whoever I wanted. I could be a knight, a hero – damn it to hell, even a _dragon_. It made me feel… less lonely.”

This time Jean kept silent, letting Eren be at peace with his wound, his pain. _People are not so different from each other, when it comes to pain,_ he thought. Everyone has felt it, always feels it, and can’t seem to escape from it. Pain clutches onto a man the moment he lives in this world. That makes the world a dangerous place, a place too cruel to love, to live freely in.

“Believe it or not, you’re the first person who isn’t even mildly annoyed by me – other than Armin,” said he, picking at the edges of the book in his lap.

That strangely flattered Jean; it gave him a chance to possible break Eren’s spells of loneliness. Could he? It was unfair that he had to go through those troublesome times when one would have no one to talk to, no one to hold, and no one that could care for him, making one feel suffocated, and detached. It was unfair, and sad. Jean had to help him – he had to. He made Marco agree for Jean to stay in the castle – he deserved that much…

“Well,” he began, “that does sound like the beginnings of a friendship…”

He saw Eren visibly stutter at that, ever so slightly; his fingers stopped played with those frayed pages, and his shoulders tensed up, uncertain.

“You mean-“said he, turning his head to stare at Jean, “You really mean that?”

Jean held his colored gaze, and nodded slowly, smiling at him. He saw that tenseness fixed in Eren’s bones melt away, just as he agreed; his shoulders relaxed, and he let out a soft sigh he barely knew he had kept. His face broke into a soft smile, and Jean welcomed it. As annoying as he could be, no one deserved to feel sad, troubled, and most of all – lonely. Those heavy feelings could wreck a man; they could be damaging for one’s soul - they could be toxic, poisonous.

“I’d… I’d like that,” was all he said next.

Jean smiled at him a little more, and extended his hand. Eren met it halfway, and they shook on it – their new friendship.

“But you still can’t enter my room!” Eren exclaimed next, pointing a finger at Jean. Jean only rolled his eyes, as he playfully punched his arm. In that moment, the two had shared quite a few laughs – the first time, Jean recalled, he had ever felt light and at peace.

 

*

 

They had stayed outside for some time, till the sun sunk down the horizon. After collecting their clothes again, now clean and dry, they came back inside the castle. Before they did, however, they had to leave Lady behind. They both knew that Calcifer would not let a wolf enter the castle – least of all Marco himself. So, with a heavy heart, Jean had to let her go on her own way. After hugging her around her neck for one long moment, the two men walked back inside the castle – and this time, Lady did not follow; she sat on her haunches obediently, staring off into the distance.

Before leaving, however, Jean and Eren brought in a bunch of flowers along with them, too. They did so, on Jean’s insistence:

“Why do you need flowers?” Eren had asked repeatedly, but he did not take no for an answer; he was adamant to brighten up the dull castle. And so he picked the loveliest flowers he could find – and his gaze had landed instantly on the ones he held now; they were smaller than the others, and more fragile, their petals a deep, beautiful ink-blue. He knew they would look to the best in the castle.

Once again, the castle began moving as soon as they settled inside. Jean immediately set off to fill empty vases with water, to place those flowers inside them. Like that, he placed more than five vases across the house, some on the window sills, others placed in different rooms – one brilliant vase even graced the dining table. When he dusted his hands to see the result, he could not suppress a smile; it felt as if someone had lit up the whole place – _the flowers did just the trick,_ he thought.

When the evening stretched into nighttime, Jean cooked up a simple dinner of slices of ham fried with some beans that Eren had found. As they supped on it, Jean noticed how one place on the table was empty – Marco wasn’t there. He recalled that the wizard had left in daytime. _When would he come back?_

He asked Calcifer, who was about to doze off in the fireplace. “Calcifer, hasn’t Marc- I mean, Master, come back yet?”

The fire demon shook its head – or rather, its face, as the flames crowning it shook along with it. “The Master will be much busier than he was from now on. His… um… _tasks_ take much time, now.”

“Tasks…?” Jean asked.

“It’s confidential information, not street gossip!” he told him hotly, growing redder with each syllable. Jean was taken aback by that sudden bout of anger, and he continued eating his dinner in silence.

It was only when he was cleaning the dishes that he whispered to Eren, “Oi, what are these ‘ _tasks_ ’ that the Master goes to?”

Eren seemed perplexed at that, torn between answering that question, or just ignoring it. As he had placed his plate down in the sink, he sighed.

“I… I can’t answer that question,” he started, “not because I don’t trust you, but… well, not only are you new, I don’t know much about the subject either.”

Jean pouted at that, though he tried not to let his disappointment show; how many other things must be kept a secret from him? There were so many things he did not know, he had yet to find out… Being unaware of such things, things that existed so close to him frustrated him.

“That’s the thing about Master,” Eren explained further, “he is never one to tell all his plans to everyone. He never does that – but he does tell little things to people he trusts, depending on their degree of loyalty. He trusts me enough to let me know some of his secrets – but not all. So if you really want to know it all, _you_ have to win his loyalty on your own – and make him trust you deeply.”

Jean nodded, as he dried off the plates. Did Marco actually fret about such things as loyalty? Was he a firm believer of trust – a bond greater than any other to exist? It did prove to reveal more about the wizard; a man who valued trust and loyalty, a man who carefully shared his plans – a man who could be afraid of betrayal.

 

* * *

 

 

Jean had expected that he’d fall asleep the moment he’d lay his head upon his pillow. He had cleaned the whole castle, after all; he had tried his best not to miss a single spot, cleaning everything that he could. With the way his shoulders and joints ached, he thought that he could have slept for eons on end.

That proved to be another one of his far-fetched assumptions.

When he had lain down, he found out that he didn’t feel sleepy anymore, no matter how hard he tried – and he _tried_. No matter how much he twisted and turned, no matter how much he fluffed up his already thin and limp pillow, and no matter how much he changed his position, sleep did not even try making his lids heavy, heavy enough for him to sleep.

He finally gave up the fight when he tried to twist and shuffle across his little bed against the stairs for the umpteenth time, groaning in his hands tiredly. _Blast it all_ , he grumbled to himself. _When you were awake, you wanted nothing else but to sleep. And now that you have the chance, you don_ _’t want to!_

He let out a deep sigh, deflating his chest. He had nothing else to do, except look ahead of him, at the wooden beam framing the cot from above. Mindlessly, he started tracing the lines and wrinkles of age carved into the wood; he tried to make out the life that tree might have lived once, trying to read its own story.

It was not as if he did not want to sleep – he could not. No matter how much he tried screwing his eyes shut, rubbing at them till he saw stars, he did not feel slumber pull him in. He tried diverting his mind; he tried recalling those rolling hills that never sat still, those plains that always kept moving on.  
It was certainly amazing how the castle almost always moved, never choosing to sit still. It made the whole structure almost human that way; how a man could not seem to fit in anywhere, thus forced to keep on moving, forced to find some new place, some other haven where he could exist, where he could live. In that sense, maybe the castle was just as lost as Jean was.

 _Or maybe the wizard is lost himself?_ he thought suddenly.

He let himself ponder over that, frowning. What if Marco Bodt _was_ that lost? What if he once also felt so alone, so lost, sitting in one place, that one day, he felt like doing nothing except run away, far, and far away? What if that was why he made this castle in the first place – so that he didn’t have to stay in one place at all? What if this was his only way to feel free?

 _Doesn_ _’t that make him almost as lost as me?_ Jean let himself think.

Suddenly, he heard a door open. It creaked a little, cutting through the silence – and then, it closed with a slam.

Jean froze all over; who had come now? _Was it_ _…?_

He then heard footsteps, soft, nimble, and then they dragged across the wooden floor, almost tiredly. He heard another screech – was this person dragging a chair? With a soft _thud_ , any other sounds of movements died out.

He heard Calcifer speak, “It’s about time you came back, Marco.”

Jean gasped; it _was_ him – _Marco_. He had arrived from his mission, so late. He lay as still as he could, not daring to make any sudden move.

The man – or, Marco – let out a huff in reply. The chair wheezed again, protesting, and then silence, nothing accentuating it other than the fire demon’s flames, the crackles echoing softly.

“The war’s gotten worse, so much worse,” Marco said, his voice hushed and tired, almost rough and scratchy, nothing like the velvet smooth voice Jean had grown accustomed to.

“Worse?” asked Calcifer, “What do you mean?”

“ _Worse_ , Calcifer; the ruler of Sina, he noticed us wizards helping King Smith win the war. He noticed it – and he’s ready for vengeance.”

“ _Vengeance?_ ”

“Yes; he’s let loose all the worst, possible kinds of monsters – each of them from the Land of the Wasted, bringing them over to his side, and making them fight against us.”

“B-but… Isn’t King Smith going to end this, then? Can’t he see you people are outnumbered?”

“That son of a bitch is _blind_ ; he can’t bloody see that we’re losing. He’s too busy dreaming about his victory- _ah_!” Marco suddenly exclaimed, grunting in pain. Jean resisted the urge to turn around, to get up and help him-

“Are you fine?”Calcifer asked softly, “Are you sure you aren’t using your powers too much-“

“ _I_ _’m fine_ ,” was all Marco hissed, his breathing still ragged. After that, Calcifer didn’t speak for a while, silence once again settling over everything.

After a pause that felt like an eternity, he asked, “How’s he holding up, Calcifer?”

“Who- Jean?” the fire asked, “He’s doing well, actually. He cleaned up the place good, washed up the clothes too – and look! He put some logs near me so that I can fuel myself anytime!”

Marco chuckled at that – not his flawless laugh, the laugh that felt like breaths as sweet and smooth as honey. This was not anything like that; this was more tired, exhausted – yet it sounded like him.

“Wow, I didn’t know he’d end up fitting so well,” Marco sighed, “All this change… It’s nice.”

Jean smiled softly; it felt good that he noticed, at least – that he liked the change, that he appreciated his work.  
Carefully, Jean lifted his fingers, to pull the curtain away a little, just enough to look at the wizard, and his condition. He shifted a little, and raised his hand, slowly, gingerly. His fingers were almost there, just a breath’s distance apart-

He heard the same sudden screech again. Under the fire’s dim light, he could see the wizard standing, right through the curtain. Quickly, he turned to lie on his other side, his face snug against the bed’s edge. He slid his eyes close, pretending to have fallen asleep. _Do not notice me_ , Jean pleaded to any of the gods up above who were willing to listen, _please do not notice me_.

Marco stood for a moment longer, immobile, calm. Then, all of a sudden, Jean heard footsteps, one after the other, growing harder and louder with each staggering step. He held onto his blanket, clutching it harder with each thud that approached him. _Thud_ , _thud_ , _thud_ , and then… silence.

Jean still laid still, not daring to move and inch. His breath quivered, as he waited, waited, and waited. The silence stretched on, growing thin and evermore fragile, tensing up in the air.

After forever, Calcifer asked gingerly, “Is… is something wrong?”

Marco did not reply straight away; he still stood where he stood, as silent as he had been before.

“It’s nothing,” Marco replied, his voice whisper-thin and husky. It felt strange, but Jean could almost feel that same rigidness in Marco again; his voice almost sounded mechanical in that sense - too strung up and wrong to be his.

As soon as that, Jean heard those thuds of feet stomping up the stairs again, until they disappeared again – and for the final time. A peaceful silence filled the air once more, and after a while, even Calcifer dozed off, snoring away softly. Jean was thankful for that; now he could focus on sleeping again, he could try at least.  
But even so, one thing refused to leave his mind:

Had the war gotten that bad? Were there monsters as scary as those faceless blobs invading homelands? If it had gotten to that, then Trost as no more safe - no place was safe anymore, as it? Moreover, why had Marco stopped in front of his bed? Was he in search for something? That slight hesitance he had shown, that Jean had felt, it didn’t make sense…

What was he looking for?

 

* * *

 

follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kirschtrash) or [tumblr](http://captaink-irschtein.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this as mainly about Jean's initial feelings and confusions when he came to the castle. The plot will thicken by the next chapters hopefully!  
> Read and review if you can - i love hearing from you guys! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Before turning to leave, he stared hard at the wooden door, blocking the path between him and Marco. There was such a measly distance between the two, just a few inches thick - why did it feel as if they were miles apart?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYY i finally got the time to update this thing, so I hope u like it! This has got some plot and a lot of feels, so enjoy! <3
> 
> Here's the [tumblr](http://kirschtrash.tumblr.com/) and the [twitter](https://twitter.com/kirschtrash) just in case c:

_**Chapter 4** _

 

Below, the world was simply empty, hollow. It’s endless jaws gaped wide, wide open, revealing a chasm as dark as jet. One false move, and he could be sent toppling down an abyss that had no end.  
Above, however, the world was not desolate - it was _alive_.

A million stars twinkled up above, over a dark blue backdrop. They glittered like diamonds, glinted like a brilliant smile, and lit up the dark world just like the sun would have.  
There was a magnificence to it - a magnificence that edged close to a feeling he would call comfort. What was that warm feeling - was it simply fascination, or was it serenity? Was it all because of the sight’s grandeur, or was it something else?

Jean did not get the chance to decide, for the lovely night gave way to day, when he opened his eyes.

Pale, morning light filtered through the curtains hiding his cot, striking his eyes a little too harshly. Jean hissed, as he rubbed the sticky sleep out of his eyes. With a wide yawn, he parted his curtains, and heaved his legs onto the cold, clammy ground. Stretching his back till he heard cracks from his weary bones, he looked around himself; sunlight streamed into the castle through the windows, the faint beams lighting up every corner of the room. Where Jean would have seen thick dust descend over everything, or even dancing in the air he breathed, he saw nothing - nothing but clean air, void of any dirt or grime.

His eyes flitted over the fireplace. There, Jean could see Calcifer snoring softly, his flames reduced to a lazy, red glow, bouncing off of the bricked walls. Before the sleepy fire demon, a wooden stool stood vacant, tilted a little to the side. It’s edge was closer to the fireplace, as if it had been occupied not too long ago.

If he could recall, it _had_ been, the night before.

To Jean, the whole occurrence felt like some odd dream. Maybe it was just a trick his sluggish mind had played on him; maybe he had been so exhausted from all the work he did around the place, he had hallucinated the scene of overhearing Marco Bodt talking about the war, denying Calcifer’s help with a pained voice, and stopping before Jean’s bed, in search for- for _something_.

It all sounded impossible - and yet, all of that did happen.

Jean still felt puzzled, but it all flew away as a frigid wind blew inside the Castle that Moved.

Shivers chilled through his bones, as he clutched his arms. Squinting around again, he noticed the terrace door opened halfway, the teal-colored curtains waving to and fro in the subtle gust of wind. Grumbling to himself, he trudged ahead, making it a mission to close that door, and maybe even tell Calcifer to wake up already - the castle needed heat.

As he stood only a few feet away from the sliding door, he spied mist collecting all over its glassy surface. He could not see what lay beyond, for everything was encased in tufts of white fog, curling in and around the castle. Out in the Lands of the Wasted, fog always clung to the shoulders of the high hills, not dissolving away until noon, when the sun would be strong enough. But from where Jean stood, it almost looked as if they were hiding in a big cloud, up in the sky.

He smirked at a thought. _This castle can walk, but it cannot fly - what a shame._

Just as he was about to close the door, he paused. He saw something, something on the glass itself. Squinting through the fog and mist clinging to the door, he caught sight of it; midst the thick drops that ran down in rivulets, he saw empty spaces, void of any water. There were more the longer Jean stared, till he could trace out a whole hand.

_Who could have been outside at this time? he asked himself._

Deep inside himself, he had a feeling who it might have been. After all, he had held that very hand himself.

Shaking his head, he grabbed the door, and closed it shut. The loud thud resonated within the stillness of the whole room, echoing as if not a single soul lived there - all except Jean. In the morning, when only he lay awake among the other sleeping inhabitants, it truly felt as if he were the only person who existed there, the only person who owned the castle, in all it’s grandeur. For a brief moment in time, the thought even made him feel a little bigger than the tiny speck of a human being he really was.

But the moment left as soon as it came, when he heard someone say, “Why, I can’t refuel on my own, I hope you know!”

Jean heaved out a sigh. No one could have had a voice as fiery, and as red as that - none except Calcifer, the fire demon.

With one last, wistful look at the white world beyond, he turned around, approaching the fire demon.  
By the time he had adequately supplied the fire with firewood, the stairs creaked and squeaked, marking Eren’s sluggish entry. Being as groggy as ever in the morning, he refused to converse only until he had shoveled half his plate of black sausages and fried bread into his mouth. Jean was sipping his cup of tea peacefully, swirling the deep, red drink. His eyes were no longer tracing the fumes; he realized that when Calcifer said:

“Master Bodt is not here.”

Jean wanted to splutter at that, to fight the fact that he had been staring at the flight of stairs that led up above for the past few minutes. But instead, he felt his eyebrow raise in question.

“Really? Then, when might he come back?” he asked.

“Why, we never really know. Sometimes Master tends to be busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Doing his duties.”

“And what might they be?”

“Jean, I do not have his entire life memorized! I swear, you’re being a little too _persistent_.”

Jean tried his best to evade the accusation, though it was hard fighting a blush creeping up his neck. He stopped bugging the fire demon, instead training his gaze back to his cup of tea. As his eyes traced the bits of tea leaves gathering at the base, he thought of where the wizard might have been. He knew he was working for the King - but what was his role in the war? Was he a messenger of sorts, or maybe a soldier? If he were fighting there physically, then he could end up getting hurt - or worse.  
The thought instantly reminded him of the night before; the way Marco had rasped at Calcifer, waving the demon's help away with forceful words, one could practically feel the pain he must have felt. To think he had gone through that ache, all by himself... it upset Jean to think that the wizard had to fight a war they were losing. If they would lose, then surely there would be consequences - fatal ones.

Before he would end up getting anxious over that trail of thought, he tried diverting his mind. He gripped his cup tight, remembering what came after - thuds, silence, and then a hand stretched out towards him.

No matter how much Jean denied the thought, the fact became as clear as crystal - Marco had stopped beside his bed. He had, but why? What was he looking for? Was there some reason in his elaborate mind back then, when he had stood with a hand outstretched towards him?

There was no answer to it, for Jean simply did not know. It was hilarious the more he thought about it: he lived under the roof of the wizard who saved his life, and yet he knew nothing about him. He knew nothing about where he had gone, when he would come back, what was his job, ambitions, or life. He knew nothing. He was all but a mystery, as blurry as the fog he had seen in the morning. All he knew was that he was a man who saved Jean - a man he hardly knew.

His eyes fell upon his fingers, that curled around the cup’s rim. He should have not felt surprised when he could see the white, ceramic tip right through his fingernail - yet, he felt his blood run cold.  
 _Forget it_ , he told himself. _You’ll get used to it soon, so don’t worry!_

He had been reciting that trail of thought like a mantra, trying to forget that ungodly sight as he cleaned the dishes. But the iciness still remained.

 

*

 

Soon, Jean began his usual chores again. It was nothing too big. All he had to do was dust around the shelves and tabletops, water the flowers he had set around every corner of the castle, and rearrange anything that was out of place. Of course, Eren had barred his own room, keeping Jean meters away from his reach. _‘It’s out of your limits!’_ was what he had said for explanation, when he had questioned his weird behavior. And to that, Jean had just rolled his eyes. With the sleeves of his white, linen shirt folded up to his elbows, he had carried on with his task at hand.

Working always helped ease Jean’s mind. When his hands would be busy, he would forget that his skin was paper-thin; he would forget of all that he lost, and all the curses and uncertainty that he gained. Those toxic things that ate up his mind else wise gave him some relief when he would be engaged in something.  
It would be so, though whenever he would catch sight of the world beyond a clear window, or through a curtain’s slit, he was sure to never forget one thing - that he was in the Castle that Moved.

After that, it would all crumble back in, like a tidal wave.

_Stop it_ , Jean, he cursed himself for the umpteenth time, when he felt himself look at the clear, blue sky through cramped windows for more than a few moments, lost in a time he was sure he could never be in. There was nothing he could do, however; he could do nothing but live with that curse, that might or might not stay with him forever. He could do nothing but stay hidden like the coward he was. It felt ridiculous to hide behind walls so adamantly, it felt suffocating to live with a hex possibly forever - but really, it was all he knew how to do.

Sluggish, incoherent thoughts followed him throughout his duties, making him zone out of the present more than a few times, more than he would have liked. He tried to resist it, but soon, even others noticed it.

“Jean, why are you staring off at space so much? That is unlike you!” Eren judged, lifting his head from the book he held in his hands. His feet were tucked and crossed underneath him, as he sat on top of the table.

But instead of answering his question, Jean squinted at him. “Hey, I just cleaned that!”

“But I’m clean!”

“I won’t hear any of that - why do you have chairs, then? Get off!”

Eren wanted to fight some more, Jean could see that - but soon, he just sighed exasperatedly. With that, he kicked his feet out, and jumped off. Grumbling something about how Jean had _‘no right to boss people around like that’_ , he dragged out a chair, and sat on it heavily.

But instead of resuming back to the pages he was reading, he looked up again. The way he kept on staring at Jean - it unnerved him; those mismatched eyes of his had been threateningly sharp the first time, and were even more so, now. The lighter, amber one glinted so much stronger than the other emerald one, like molten gold. In the light, they glittered like a pair of gemstones. They were marvelous in that sense - yet, they were equally daunting.

After what felt like forever, Eren asked, “I think I finally know what is wrong with you.”

Jean did not mean to freeze all over the way he did. What would he know? How would he have guessed the reason to a condition he does not understand himself?

“Wh-what?” he stuttered, pulling and twisting the rag in his hand fretfully.

With a lopsided smirk, he professed:

“You are simply bored.”

_Bored?_

Jean squinted again. “Bored?”

“Yes - _bored_ ,” said Eren, “for the past days, all you have been doing is cleaning around the house. It must be enough to drive someone mad! What you need is some time out.”

“Time out?” Jean echoed, folding his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Time out, as in… You do something other than cleaning the house - I promise, this castle cannot get cleaner than it already is!”

“Then what do you suggest I do as a _‘time out’_?”

It was a moment later, that Eren chose his answer. “Why don't you read?”

This time, Jean’s eyebrows reached till his hairline.

“Read?” asked Jean

“Well, yes,” explained Eren, “we have enough books to last a lifetime. And you’ll be able to get a break, too.”

Jean was already shaking his head. “L-look, I appreciate the offer, but really, I should stick to cleaning anything that might be out of place. Master Bodt would not like it if I just slack off...”

“Ugh, Master is no dictator, just so you know!” Eren retorted, rolling his eyes. Sighing, he got up. He made his way towards the shelf with a finger pressed to his chin. Standing before the vintage bookshelf, Jean saw him run his gaze over the numerous spines of books - both old and new - stacked and piled and leaned against one another.

As he did so, he went further, “Master won’t kick you out if you get some rest. Besides, he is not even here. You’ve been working for so long, you must want to rest at some point, right?”

Jean chewed at his lip, as he weighed his choices. There was no denying how much his bones screamed for a moment to stop doing something, and to just rest for some time.

_But what about all that I’ve been trying to run away from? If I do not work, it will all come crashing down-_

“And after all,” piped up a hopeful Calcifer from behind, “Master finds your work satisfactory!”

Jean knew that, for he had heard him say that himself the night before. And yet, it did not fail to light a spark in his chest, and burn his cheeks, as a flare of confidence and flattery coursed through him.

Shaking his head, Jean tried insisting: “I- I appreciate all that, really - but still-”

“No! We will not hear any of it!” Eren demanded, as he sat back on his chair, but this time - undoubtedly - with another book in his hands.

“Oh, come on, Eren-”

“Not at all!”

“Ugh, Eren-”

“ _No_ ,” he stressed, snapping his sharp, mismatched glare at him. “You have worked too much, Jean. Just sit for a while, get a few breaths of air - and then you can go if you want.”

Jean wanted to fight; he wanted to hold himself upright, stand firm, and deny any form of rest. He wanted to seem bold, undeniable, strong. He wanted to glow with authority, strength, and confidence. He wanted to say no, and continue working like any person who knew where they stood, who knew how to hold their own.

But Jean was never like that.

Instead, he felt his death grip on the cloth slacken. His shoulders sloped down, out of their own accord. As he stopped cleaning, stopped moving - stopped doing something - all the pent-up exhaustion tumbled on top of him, like a massive landslide. He never realized how much his bones had been aching until he stopped working.

Clenching his jaw tight, Jean approached the table. With hesitant moves, he seated himself on the spare chair beside Eren. No matter how much he disliked the idea of resting, he could not suppress the sigh of relaxation that reverberated through him.

And frustratingly, Eren noticed it. “Well, well - I guess I was right!”

“Bugger off.”

But the green-and-amber eyed man just laughed brashly. “There’s no point in lying to yourself! You need the rest, even a blind man can tell. And _so_ -” He paused for a moment, only to thrust the book in his hands. “Here you go!” he completed himself.

Jean stared at the book in his hands; it was bigger than his hand, and just as heavy. It was old, that much he could tell. It’s blue cover was not the same in most places, as the soft tinge faded into white patches at the edges. Other than the stripes of gold marking its spine, it had no name to speak of; no description inked onto it, no title etched on its cover - nothing. Curiosity took hold of him, as he grabbed the blunt corner of the book, and opened it.

Dust clung to its yellowing pages, making Jean wrinkle his nose. The musty scent of age and years gone by hovered under his nose thickly, making him cringe. But he tried ignoring that, as he ran his fingers on the title of the book, inked into the crumbly, front page with black words:

_Robin Hood._

Eren spoke before he could ask him anything. “ _'Robin Hood'_ ; the first book I read.”

Jean looked up. “But this used to be a story for children, was it not?”

Eren looked offended by that. “ _‘Children’s story’_? Eat your words, friend! The tale of Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men is much, much more than a children’s story - it’s- it’s filled with adventure, romance, loyalty to good, and most of all - justice!”

Jean nodded deeply. He turned his head back to the book he held. Tryingly, he flipped through some more pages. As he did, dust floated off of it’s vintage papers, gone crumpled and stained with age; here and there, Jean could mark blotches of ink, and drops of tea-stains as well. But the words were crystal clear, written with black ink that curled beautifully. On some spare pages, Jean even spied illustrations of knights clad in armor and steel, of cruel rulers, of beggars and crippled men begging for mercy - and one other meticulous drawing of a youthful man, standing on top of a hill, with a pair of sharp eyes and an honest, cunning smile.

“That is him,” Eren pointed, sighing away wistfully, “Robin Hood. I remember the first time I saw him, I had been so… fascinated. I still am. I mean, you can tell from the way he stands that he will always have the will to fight - even if it costs his life.”

And that much he was true about. With the way Robin Hood had his hands on his waist, his shoulders perched up, and his chest jutting out - anyone could tell that he was brave enough to stand for all he believed in, brave enough to fight back, and win.

_If only I were a bit like him. I would not be here, then. I would not have seen the black ink marking the pages right through my fingers._

Nevertheless, a curiosity tugged inside of him. It was what made him lean back against the chair comfortably, and turned to the first page. With an urge to learn more about the fair outlaw, he began reading. Soon enough, he was lost in a whole world full of robbers, bandits, unjust people, and one just man who made it a mission to spread good in their world.

 

* * *

 

 

In the course of the next few days, Jean had finished a dozen books with a speed and vigor he did not know he possessed. The tale of Robin Hood was followed by the stories of King Arthur of Camelot, then the magical legends of Merlin the Wizard, and so many more. Some stories were of the proud Englishmen, some were tales of the mighty Mughals of the east, some were accounts of the fearsome Mongols - he could have spent hours to recall them all.  
Eren did not bind him to worldly things, however. He helped keep his literary world wide open, with stories about dragons, fairies, demons, angels, and even monsters. Each book - big or small - was different. Each of them gave Jean access to worlds he never knew existed, worlds filled with adventure, spirit, courage, and bravery. It was marvelous to think that pieces of paper and smears of ink could create fathomless worlds filled with daring escapades right to the brim.

Reading had become a daily activity for Jean. After he would be free from regular chores of cleaning, dusting and rearranging things in their proper order, he would seclude himself to a new book Eren would offer him, and lose himself into another escapade. Getting lost within those stories no longer seemed hard to him; as easy as chores made him forget all that pained him, he did the same with books - except it was better. The paintings that those words could create just by stringing with one another - it would be enough for him to enter a world where he could just be blissfully unaware of everything.

One book followed another, until he had lost track of days himself. It was one random morning when he had asked Calcifer of the date and day, and realized that Marco had not been back for five days straight.

“ _Five days_?” Jean gasped, dropping the books in his hands, “W-well, is he okay? When will he be back? _Where is he_?” Jean asked the fire demon.

“Slow down, Jean, slow down!” Calcifer hushed, “This isn’t something new - Master tends to leave for days on end.”

“But still, what if something has happened to him-”

“You worry yourself too much, Jean. Marco is no great wizard for nothing, I hope you know. He will be fine - and he will be back soon!”

Jean was worrying his lip between his teeth, lost in thought once more. _He must be gone to win the war_ , after all, he thought, trying to calm his mind, _surely that must be hard and tedious work!_

Fretfully, he snapped his gaze back at the terrace. He saw a clear, bright day outside, with not a single speck of cloud on the blue sky. It was a beautiful day, really - and yet, he sighed to himself.

As his eyes lingered over the world beyond, he could not help but think:

_Where did he go?_

 

* * *

 

  
The week was at it’s end, and still there was no sign of Marco Bodt anywhere. Time trickled on ahead, as the days whizzed past. Everyday, Jean hoped that he would hear a sharp rapt on the wooden door, the jingle of the door knob, and the soft, resonating ding of the doorbell. He hoped he would soon hear the wizard's soothing voice again, and feel his warm presence once more. But instead, all that he was greeted with was silence, and a coldness that reminded him too much of the wizard's absence. It gave him no comfort; like a cold, vicious veil, it blinded him from worldly things, making him feel the cruel certainty that there could be a day when Marco Bodt could vanish forever.  
That last, dying thought always set his nerves on fire, with fear and grief combined. The last thing he wanted was the one person who saved his life to just disappear away from him. And what if he did? What would Jean do then? He would be helpless, then - _hopeless_ -

“Jean, Jean, Jean,” he chided, as he supped on bread and cheese. His voice cut through Jean's panicky thoughts like a knife through butter, as he jerked at his sudden voice.

With a big mouthful, Eren muttered incoherently, “You don’ have-ta worry!” Once he had gulped it all down, did he continue, “Calcifer was true before; Master tends to leave the castle for days on end. His jobs take a long while, is all.”

“But… but still,” Jean insisted childishly, wringing his hands in his lap, “don’t you ever fear that he has left for- for good?”

Eren cocked his head to one side in thought. Shaking his head, he said, “Well, no. No, I never really think he would just- just leave. He knows he has us waiting for him - why would he forget all that?”

His eyes bore into Jean’s own with a look of sheer commitment, and belief as hard as steel. Nothing wavered behind those mismatched irises, no kind of weakness betrayed through his being. He actually believed that Marco would come back - whatever the odds may be.

Jean could only pray to have as much faith as he did. In a way, he grew _envious_.

He sighed tiredly. Rubbing a hand down his face, he groaned. “I’m sorry, I know I should not worry so much-”

“Oi, it’s alright. You are just nervous, is all - I’ll give you something to keep your mind off of things, yeah?”

Jean drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his chin in one hand, as he patiently waited for Eren to give him some new book to read. His back was facing him for a moment, as the young man searched through rows and rows of books, both big and small. He was humming a soft tune under his breath, until he stopped with a hushed _'aha!'_

He plucked a thin, square book from the whole lot, and turned around, thrusting it into his hands with a smile.

Jean leaned against his chair once more. He did not have to open the book, for the title was written in gold letters, glowing strikingly bright against the blood red cover.

_Romeo and Juliet_ , it said.

Jean could feel his face flush as his eyes ran over the words. He could also feel Eren’s grin grow ridiculously wide.

“Eren,” he muttered.

“Yes?”

“This is a romantic story.”

“And?”

Jean snapped his gaze at the other man sharply. “And I am not interested in it!”

“ _Oh_ ,” Eren judged, trying his best not to laugh - a feat he was failing in. He quirked an eyebrow at him teasingly, saying, “maybe _that_ is why you are blushing, huh?”

Jean spluttered aloud, “Th-that’s nothing!”

Eren was laughing heartily by now. “I can’t seem to see the reason why you wouldn’t want to read it! Why, it even has pictures-”

Before the blond could groan and splutter at Eren some more, they heard the doorbell ring.

The soft ding had not even rang twice, and Jean was already at his feet. Without Eren’s consent or privilege, he ran towards the door. He heard Calcifer exclaim the door it was from - the ‘Maria door!’, he said. He knew which one was that. It was the blue one, he was sure.

Footsteps thundered down the wooden stairs. Gnawing at his lip fretfully, he turned the dial to the blue one. With not a moment’s pause, he wrenched the door open, awaiting the presence of bright eyes and freckles once again.

But he did not receive that. He did not get the presence of the great wizard - only of a taller man, clad in blue from head to toe. On his breast, he spied a pair of wings sewn with blue-and-silver thread. He knew what it was - the _‘wings of freedom’_ , they called it.

“Good evening, sir,” the man greeted, looking down at the white piece of parchment in his hands, “May I speak with Mr. Arthur?”

_Mr. Arthur?_

But before he could deny the presence of such a man, Eren dragged him away from the door by his collar. Approaching the messenger, he said, “He- he isn’t here, at the moment, good sir. You may leave a message if you please.”

“Very well, then.” Clearing his throat, the youth began, “This is a message for Mr. Arthur from His Majesty himself: all certified witches and wizards must report to the castle immediately, to contribute to our success and victory in the war.”

After thanking him gently, Eren closed the door shut. He held a white envelope in his hand, similar to the one he saw him hold the first day he met him. With a perplexed face, he walked up the stairs. As Jean followed him up, he heard Calcifer speak:

“It was them, wasn’t it?”

Eren placed the letter on the table, and sighed. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, he said, “Gods be good, this is not going too well. Calcifer, now they want both Arthur and Mr. Bodt to visit the King - all while he is lost.”

“But he has it all under control. He has been dealing with it for a long while-”

“I know, but for how much longer can he keep this up? One day it will end up biting his own arse if he doesn’t sort this out…”

Jean listened to the two talk from the top of the stairs. Confused, he asked, “Who is Arthur?”

Both human and demon stared at him with a doubting look. He saw Calcifer shake his head, saying, “Sorry, Jean, that- that is something we cannot tell you-”

“Calcifer,” Eren cut in, “we can’t keep it from him for long; sooner or later, he will find out.”

“But Master-”

“-has agreed that he is a part of us, now,” Eren completed, “so we mustn’t treat him as a stranger.”

Turning fully to Jean, he explained, “Mr. Arthur is Master Bodt.”

Jean squinted. “He is _him_? Wait, wait… how can- how can Marco be...”

“Master Bodt has two identities to himself; one is Marco Bodt, and the other is Arthur Balerion.”

Jean held the railing beside him, gripping it tight. “But… but why would he keep two names?”

“Not names,” Eren stressed, “identities. He is two different people entirely. He is registered to the King under both names - and the King does not know that he is in fact, the same person.”

It was getting harder for him to digest everything he listened to. “S-so he has two separate identities… But why?”

Eren shrugged. “I don’t know, really. All I know is that Master has strictly ordered us to never reveal this secret to anyone, or else he will be one head short.”

Jean resisted the urge to rub his neck worriedly, instead making his way towards the table once more. His mind was still puzzled about Marco Bodt and his many names, though his train of thought was interrupted when Eren stood in his way.

“And don’t go on and about opening doors like that, Jean!” he warned.

Jean asked, “And why is that?”

“Because- because people will get to see your… your condition. And the last thing we need midst a war are queer rumors from the Castle that Moved, lest we attract eager enemies,” explained Eren.

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice over Jean.

When he glanced at his hands, he did not see solid skin - only the wooden floor under his feet. When he saw his arms, he could see everything beyond. It was no trick of the eye. Nothing could let him escape the brutal reality - that he was still under the influence of a wretched curse, that turned him into a living ghost.

“Y-you’re right,” croaked Jean, “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

He felt his fingers curl to form hard fists at his sides. He imagined that as long as he could feel nails biting the skin on his palms, he was fine, he was alright; if he focused on the sting hard enough, maybe he could forget all that he had lost.

  
The rest of the day passed by in a silent blur. After the message they got from the Royal Family, nobody talked much. Eren kept himself to his books. Calcifer tended to the castle and it’s maintenance, while Jean busied himself with chores around the place. They were successful in keeping his mind occupied, gave him temporary relief from everything - though he could not truly run away from his curse, could he?

When night finally broke in, he felt his bones ache more than usual. He landed on his bed heavily, massaging his cramped arms. He had overworked himself again, it seemed. He tended to do that a lot of times. If he kept this pace of his for long, he would start growing old earlier than was necessary.

“You should rest, now,” said Calcifer from the fireplace. It’s black eyes were sleepy, as his bright glow faded to a soft, orange hue. Through the flames, he yawned like a cat, and then said, “You’ve done enough.”

Strangely, those words reminded him of someone he knew, a woman with orange hair just like the color of the demon’s flames. _She had had a knack of worrying for me_ , too, he recalled. _She always told me that, whenever I worked too much at the shop._

Jean suppressed the wave of nostalgia that made his heart heavy. He made an effort to smile, and thanked the fire demon with shaky words. Slipping his shoes off, he slid behind the curtains, and hid beneath his scratchy, woolen blanket.  
Recalling Aunt Petra brought in a mixture of feelings. It made him feel nostalgic, as her sudden memory made him smile beneath his cover.

It was when a dry sob wracked his body, that he realized that he missed her _terribly_.

He missed her; he missed her smiles, her jibes, her hearty bouts of laughter, her soft gestures - and most of all, he missed her love and gentle care. He missed her so much, and she was gone. The realization struck his chest hard, like a rock pummeling into him. Everyone was gone, everyone he knew; his mother, Joffrey, Connie, Aunt Petra, thoughtful Sasha, timid Lilith and the rest of the girls from the shoe shop - _everyone._

_Even Father. Father is gone, too. Everyone I know no longer remain with me._

Fingers scrabbled beneath his pillow. Jean did not extract his hand until he felt something warm and musty on his skin. When he pulled it out, he felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips. His eyes traced the faint patches of faded pink within the red color of his flat-cap, that used to be his father’s.

That was all that remained of his dear father. It was all the family he had left, for he had abandoned everybody else. Yes, he had no choice - and yet, he felt guilty for leaving with no kind of farewell, or a simple good bye. He just left them, as swift as the wind. He shivered beneath his cover; now, there was a gaping hole where his heart once was, an emptiness that was taken away from the moment he stepped out of the shoe shop with a grey cloak hugging his shoulders, and a steely resolve that screamed _there is no turning back_.

A hat. That was all that was left. Even the memory of his father’s smile was starting to fade. He could no longer picture his smile, or the crinkles at the edges of his eyes, or the way his amber eyes glittered with kindness. The thought of his father felt so thin, so fragile, like a soft wisp of a memory within the expanse of his mind. He was terrified at how frail it was, afraid that if he did not catch it soon, if he did not keep it close to himself soon, then it would just dissolve into nothingness.

And then what would he do? He had already lost everything - he would break if he lost that memory, too.

His hands clutched his father’s cap against his chest. When he inhaled it’s aged scent, surrounding him thickly, he felt tears prickle the back of his eyes. It was then that he let himself break with grief.

 

*

 

It was a loud thud that woke him up.

It was so sudden, so loud, it sucked the sluggish sleep right out of his eyes. Panic surged through him like an electric shock, more so when he heard staggering steps slamming themselves against the wooden floor. _Thud, thud, thud, thud_ , it went, not stopping, nor slowing down.

His breath came out in short pants. His hands were around his flat-cap with a steely death grip. Who was this stranger-

The steps stopped. The sudden thuds died out. All that punctuated the air was a quivering silence - and the sounds of ragged, shaky breaths.

It was then that he heard Calcifer speak. “You have gone too, M-master - _again_.”

The panic shrunk to a sudden fear, that sent chills through his spine. Was it Marco? Did something happen to him?

He got no chance to think ahead, for he heard a heavy rasp:

“Leave me be, Calcifer.”

It was pained, strained, and so tired - it did not help keep the simmering fear inside of him at bay.

“But Master-” the demon tried to object.

Marco cut him off with a rasp louder than the last:

“ _Leave me be!_ ”

It made Calcifer hush himself. It also made the hair on the back of Jean’s neck rise with terror.

Staggering steps resumed themselves. _Thud, thud, thud_ , they went once more, slamming against the floorboards, stepping up the stairs, reverberating through Jean’s own cot underneath the flight.

The thundering steps had finally echoed to a stop, but there was nothing that could slow down Jean’s own thundering heartbeat. Beads of sweat bordered his forehead, yet when a single train of thought passed through his panicky mind, he shivered.

Was Marco hurt? Why was Calcifer warning him like that? What was wrong?

_What happened?_

 

*

 

Jean had convinced himself that when he would wake up, everything would be normal once again. He had hoped beyond hopes that whatever he had heard the night before was some wild, wild dream, and that none of it was real.

But when he did wake up, things did not turn out to be so easy.

The night’s events did not leave his mind, no matter what he did. Whether it was carrying out his chores like cleaning rooms, washing clothes or watering the plants, he could not shake that feeling of terror off of himself. Even reading books no longer gave him a sense of peace. Words that once seemingly painted an entire picture now just passed over his head as easily as air; they held no meaning anymore. He could not find any of it, not when the only thing running around in his mind was Marco’s pained voice.  
It had been worse than the last one he had heard. The one he had heard last night was simply agonizing, as if the wizard had been ripped apart from the seams. And the thought hurt Jean - more so, when he knew that he could not do anything to help.

_Who hurt him?_ he thought. _Why did he get hurt? Why did he avoid a friend’s help? Why did he hide all that pain, even when it was so crystal clear?_

It hurt Jean to think that he masked it all behind paper-thin words that had no meaning. He wanted to help him; he wanted to let him know that he did not have to hide, he did not have to run away. He wanted to let Marco know that he was cared for - but how? How could he do that when he knew nothing of what happened? How could he try to help him when he had no idea of his job, his escapades, or his life? How could he care for someone he hardly knew?

Even so, that did not mean he would not try.

A day since then had passed. He and Eren were supping on slices of juicy ham, alongside mashed potatoes they managed to dig up, seasoned with salt, pepper and bits of onions. Washing it down with gulps of water, Jean noticed how one other person was yet again absent.

“Calcifer?” asked Jean.

“Yes?”

“Why isn’t Master coming down for lunch?”

“I told you,” the fire stressed, “Master tends to be busy most of the times.” Yet, even the demon could not quite hide the way his voice got so strained.

Jean quirked an eyebrow at the demon. “What occupies him so much that he forgets to eat for two days straight?”

“I do not know what happens behind his bedroom door! All I know is that whatever he does involves challenging things, and interrupting him just makes him mad.”

Jean bit down another retort he wanted to throw at Calcifer. Instead, he gazed up at the stairs that led to the upper floor. Marco might be inside his room just now. Maybe he was pondering over intricate maps laid out before him, plotting his next attack at the enemy. Maybe he was writing letters to his allies, keeping one another updated with ploys and schemes. Maybe he was practicing his magic, coming up with new spells and tricks to surprise his enemies.

Whatever he was doing, he simply could not go on without food.

He felt himself rise. His fork hit the table with a clang, as he made his way towards the kitchen. When Calcifer spied the plate of food in Jean’s hand, did he object:

“Hey! I just told you that Master does not like being interrupted!”

“He cannot expect to do whatever he is doing without food!”

“What he can or cannot do - that is not our decision to make. He can take care of himself - if he needs to take his food, he will do so himself!”

That might have been enough reason for Jean to turn around and retreat. That might have convinced him that what he was about to do was either really risky or just really stupid - Calcifer was right; if he wanted to eat, then he would have come himself.

But what he had heard that night told him otherwise; that night, the way he just declined the help, insisted the fire demon that he wanted to be left alone - it almost sounded as if it were his habit.

He showed the hotheaded demon the cold shoulder, and walked up the stairs.

It was until he stood face-to-face with the wizard’s door, that he began truly regretting his decision. What if Marco just rejected him too? What if he got so angry that he would curse at him, glare at him, and send him off with a shout? Maybe he actually was busy, maybe his interruption would actually infuriate him.

But some invisible force made him knock on the door anyway.

His knock was met by silence; he could not hear the man’s voice of question, or any sound of shuffling. As if no one was inside, he only heard still silence.

Swallowing thickly, Jean tried his luck: “I-it’s me - Jean. You have not been coming down for food, s-so I assumed you might be… you might be hungry. I hope I did not disturb you…”

Again, he got his reply in a silence. Biting the inside of his cheek, he tapped his foot against the floorboard impatiently, looking around himself in nervousness. There was simply no point in turning back now.

“I- I’ve left the food here,” said Jean, sinking to his knees so that he could place the plate of food on the floor. Nudging the platter closer to the door with the tips of his fingers, he continued, “You may eat it now, b-before it gets too cold.”

Before turning to leave, he stared hard at the wooden door, blocking the path between him and Marco. There was such a measly distance between the two, just a few inches thick - why did it feel as if they were miles apart?

 

* * *

 

 

That had not been the last time he did that. He had been giving Marco his plate of food thrice a day for four days more - only the difference was that he never saw the plate get empty; it would always be left out in the corridor, cold and untouched. Marco never made an effort to try and eat, and whenever Jean gave the leftover food to Calcifer, it felt as if he was never going to either way.

And even then, there was always something that made him make an extra portion for him whenever he made breakfast, lunch or dinner. He always made sure that there was enough food for second helpings, enough for the wizard to sup on himself. Though Marco’s childish behavior got on Jean’s nerves more than a few times, he did not give up; even when he would return to yet another plate of untouched food, he could not bring it in himself to just stop altogether.

However, the effort did create some problems.

“Great, we are out of food, now!” exclaimed Eren from the kitchen. He was frantically opening and closing the cabinets with loud thuds and even louder groans, searching around for something edible within the confines of their house.

Jean looked up from the tale of King Arthur he was reading. “Well, we had to run out some time.”

Eren barked up a bout of laughter, audible even from the kitchens. He stomped towards Jean, and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Oh, well, of course it was bound to - because you just had to make extra portions of every kind of food!”

Jean knew better than to raise his voice and retort - he had signed up for this, after all.

He avoided his friend’s mismatched glare, instead reading his book once more. “W-well, you cannot expect me to just cook food for- for everyone, and forget Master’s portion entirely.”

“You just fail to understand,” groaned Eren.

Dragging a chair out in front of Jean, the brunette sat upon it heavily. Leaning his elbows against his knees, he made the blond man lift his gaze from his book, and meet his green-and-amber eyes.

“Look, things are slightly different with Master,” said Eren, his voice gone softer than before, “I understand that you are trying to help him, giving him food and all - but he just does not work that way.”

“But Eren-”

“No, Jean, I’m telling you this because I have lived with him for longer. Master is not like the rest. He is different - he just doesn’t… doesn’t function like that. He has been independent all his life - he has liked his own company better than that of others.”

“So what, I just stop giving him food? We just stop considering him a part of the castle, is what you are trying to say?”

“All I’m saying is that all these efforts would work on someone else - but it won’t work on Master. So it’s all- all _futile_ , Jean.”

The blond man was helpless. Like a child, he was forced to wrench his gaze away, staring at the floor as he bit his lip fretfully. Jean knew that Eren was convincing him to stop just because he cared. He knew that his friend did not want him to get demoralized on something as fruitless as getting Marco Bodt to eat his food. And yet, he could not stop - he did not want to stop.

He heard Eren sigh dejectedly before him. He then stood up, and stretched like a lazy cat. Dusting his hands, he looked back towards the kitchen. For the sake of changing the topic, he judged, “Well, for now, we need to get some more food.”

Jean let himself sigh as well. “Okay, then - I’ll write down the things we need, and you can go get them before sundown.”

“Oh, I would not bet on that,” piped in Calcifer. “Eren has had a bad record with outdoor chores that involve money.”

“I- I do not!” spluttered Eren.

“Oh, really? How about that time when you forgot what to buy, and you ended up buying that Miasma herb instead?”

His face turned the color of beet. “W-well, they had been confusing!”

“Why, the stink hadn’t left the castle for a full week-”

“That was one time, Calcifer!”

“Okay, okay,” butted in Jean, raising his hands. He tried his best not to chortle at Eren’s elaborate escapades, instead standing up himself. He undid his rolled sleeves, letting the soft fabric dangle around his wrists.

“I can come with you,” said Jean, folding his arms, “Though I don’t think I can - not with my… my ‘condition’.”

Eren pondered over Jean’s statement, with a finger pressed to his chin. Silence elapsed within the castle once again, with only the crackles of Calcifer’s flames punctuating it’s stillness.

As sudden as a crack through glass, Eren broke in a smile, his eyes glimmering with something similar to mischief. Jean felt himself shy away - that look could either result in something really good, or something really bad.

 

*

 

“Eren, I don’t think this will work.”

“Yes it will, Jean - trust me!”

“This is a ridiculous idea - I mean, I just look silly in this!”

“Stop whining like some damsel - we will be back from the market in no time!”

Jean had prayed for that - he had been praying that very thing throughout their trek to the market-place in the humble town of Maria. Of course, they had not left without proper planning.

It had been Eren’s plan to disguise Jean as best as he could, with a few magical tips and tricks he had learned from Master Bodt. He gave him his magical cloak, that transformed him into an old, ancient man with a slight tug of it’s hood. Eren had to change the color of the beard, however - 'If I give you the same color as mine, then people will end up getting suspicious!' was what he had explained.

Thus, like that, Jean hid half of his face behind his hood - not without a bright, yellow beard, that curled from his chin, stopping right at his waist. For his translucent hands, Eren had given him thick leather gloves that hid his skin. Overall, he was sure he would get stared at just as much as he would have if he went out with skin through which someone could see through - but he could not fight it. He had to dress up like that, for it was all part of the precautions set for him.  
Hence, ignoring the way Calcifer cackled manically at his odd appearance, he and Eren had walked out into the open. Eren himself chose not to dress up or hide his identity, though he did cast a spell to make both his eyes turn a brilliant emerald green, instead of one. He walked beside him with an empty crate in his hands, the soft gusts of wind ruffling his mop of dark hair.

Jean looked over at his rather simple look, and grumbled, “I still think you have overdone my disguise.”

“Oh, lighten up, will you?” Eren replied nonchalantly, with a lazy shrug. He pointed before him. “Look, we’re almost there - we will be back in no time!”

Jean guided his line of sight to where Eren was pointing at. Squinting through the sun’s glare, he spotted thick crowds of people a few meters ahead of them, crowding around what seemed like huts, with makeshift roofs made of sheets of cloth pegged up with ropes and sticks.  
Jean found himself gripping the walking stick that Eren gave him - to “blend in” - a little too hard for comfort; he had not gone out in public this openly ever since he was cursed back in his town of Trost. Ever since he had found out he had paper-thin skin, he had promised himself to never show himself openly ever again - for what kinds of questions would arise if he did? What would they call him? A freak of nature? Some nuisance? Or some curse?

The sunlight struck the smooth cobbled pavement hard, making it glisten like molten silver. As their footsteps slammed against the stones, Jean’s heart thundered against his ribcage the closer they got to the market place. Though hiding from plain sight would be easier in a crowd filled with strangers, from an entirely new town, it still gave him enough reason to chew his lip nervously.

When Eren and Jean finally reached their destination, Jean had to stop in his tracks. Before him, he saw a brilliant blue expanse of water, it’s waves glittering like diamonds underneath the sun. The waves sloshed to and fro, up and down, not stopping for a moment’s breath. Above the blue surface, he watched flocks of seagulls take flight, whizzing through the world up above in a white blur.

A smile tugged at Jean’s lips. As he saw those birds fly through the clouds, he recalled how the cold wind had felt once, as it ran through his hair. He remembered how alive he had felt back then, with his feet walking on air, his heart beating wildly inside his chest - and a solid certainty that blared through his entire being, when he knew that there was someone behind him, keeping him away from any kind of harm.

Eren’s squinting stare broke Jean’s state of reverie. “What are you smiling for?”

Jean was actually glad for the hood he wore, keeping his blush hidden from plain sight. “I- it’s nothing, I mean, I have never seen the sea, before. It’s… it’s beautiful.”

Eren shrugged. “It’s always been like that.”

Rolling his eyes, Jean turned to his right, walking deeper into the market. Towards the city, he spotted a hundred stalls, lining the pavements thickly. Each one of them was different from the other; one sold fruits, while the other sold vegetables. One sold a variety of pottery made of clay and ceramics, while the other sold plates and trays made of the finest of metals. Some huts sold sour-leaf, some offered the finest cuts of meat, and some sold fruits cut up on the spot, and served with spices the color of red brick.  
To the left, he saw the sea as it was before. When he walked closer, he spotted small boats that tied themselves to the docks. Anchored fixedly to the wharf, he saw that even those vessels were not quite empty. The smaller ones were filled with clams and cockles, fish and shrimps. Big, burly fishermen sold their catch of the day with thick, heavy accents, shouting their rates and expenses in the air. The much bigger ships had barrels of expensive wine bordering their decks. Some of them had thin wisps of men selling fine silks and subtle velvets, found only from the seas beyond. The stench of fish and oysters and clams and strong wines meshed together in the atmosphere so thickly, Jean had a bit of trouble simply breathing. Yet, the sight of busy people invested in their busy lives brought some sort of comfort to Jean. It was a reason why his odd disguise did not bother him anymore, as he moved about the market more freely.

Whatever kind of shop there was, people buzzed around them like flies would hover over a sweet, sticky treat. They bargained, they bought, and some even fought. That made it easier for Jean to shy away from people’s hard and foreign glares; they were so noisy and boisterous to begin with, he had no problem in hiding from plain sight. With Eren tagging along beside him, they bought whatever they needed; all from onions, carrots, spinach (against Eren’s childish insistence that they did not need any), potatoes, and other kinds of vegetables, to the choicest cuts of pork, ham, chicken, and even mutton. Their crate had gotten full to the brim with all their food, yet nothing stopped Jean from buying a few fruits. There were so many kinds of fruits, fresh and ripe from their picking. He spotted oranges and plums so ripe they were about to burst; he saw apples as red as blood, and pomegranates the size of two of his fists combined. He did not hesitate to buy as many as they needed, no matter how much Eren rolled his eyes at his motherly behavior.

The pair of them were leaning over a boat anchored at the harbor by the time it was well past afternoon. The tiny vessel bobbed up and down the swift waves, as Jean inspected the kinds of fish the kind fisherman had caught for the day. He held a big herring from it’s gills, inspecting it’s meat and skin, as it’s scales glimmered under the sun like beaten gold. The fisherman ducked behind large, smelly craters, as he dug up some fresh oysters for Eren’s liking.

Jean waited at the edge, with his feet tapping the pavement sharply. Then, he heard loud gasps erupt through the noise, as sudden as a clap of thunder.

His gaze snapped towards the sea. To his far left, he spotted a dark cloud of smoke, the plumes lifting up high into the sky. The black mass hovered from above the sea surface - when Jean rose on the tips of his toes, and squinted through the crowds of people, he gasped himself:

The smoke had been wafting off of a gigantic warship, wrecked and ruined to pieces. It’s deep blue sail, marked with the proud Wings of Freedom was now torn to tatters, the edges of it fuming with the dying embers of what would have been a mighty fire. It’s beams were battered, the deck shattered to nothing but useless splinters of wood. A smaller vessel tugged the remains of the ship towards the quay, alarming the common folk of it’s entry with loud hoots of the horn.

“It’s one of King Smith’s warships!” a woman cried out in dismay, clutching at her chest.

“Tha’ might’ve been the fifth warship he has burnt, aye,” a fat bellied man judged, spitting out the sour-leaf he had been chewing.

“Dear Lord,” a comely man said to his companion, “if King Smith keeps up like this, he will lose the war.”

“Oh, he’ll lose anyway, aye,” the companion replied, “because I’ve heard that the ruler of Sina’s got monsters workin’ for him!”

“Monsters?” the fisherman asked from his little boat. “Why, surely - mighty wizards and witches on the King’s side must be more powerful, are they not?”

The companion shrugged. “They aren’t no ordinary monsters, mister - and the King’s got no obedient followers, either.”

Jean recalled the way Marco Bodt had been evading the invitations from the Royal Family - was that what they called disobedience? He turned to his left a little, straining his ears to catch more of their talk.

The fat man asked, “Why, wha’ makes you so sure?”

“You’d expect the King to be seating his mighty ass up on his throne rather comfortably by now if he had obedient wizards and witches, don't ya think?”

“Bu’ then- then how can the King try and win?”

This time, the companion did not shrug the question away. He dug his hands in his pockets, and sighed through his nose. The honking of the safety vessel had grown soft, by the time the people began talking loudly once again.  
The man took a moment, before which he said, “The King is trying to win, with the help of his followers - but rumors say they’re doin’ bad things to them, to make them more civil.”

“What kinds of bad things?” the fisherman asked timidly.

A wave of fear washed over the man, as he completed himself: “Bad things, mister - things you would only imagine in your dreams.”

Nails bit hard into the palms of his hands. With a hiss, Jean let go of his hard fists. He did not recall ever clenching them that hard. He had had enough of their common talks.

“Eren, let’s- let’s head home,” he rasped, holding his walking stick by its pommel. “We’ll just get a herring. One will be enough to last a long while, if we just-”

It was as if cold water was thrown over him. Chills of fear ripped through his veins, burning his insides with electric shocks. Most of all, he felt that sickening feeling of invisible forces, lashing and tearing and searing his skin bit by bit, as his eyes traced the figure of a creature, as black as night, and no face to speak of - only a plain, white mask that hid it’s disgusting, blob-like skin.

“What are you staring at, Jean-” Eren asked uncertainly.

“It’s _them_ ,” Jean cut in, his voice gone paper thin, “It’s- it’s them- ahead of you. Right at the edge of the d-decks-”

“Them who?”

“Them, Eren- t-they are that witch’s _henchmen_ \- the- the witch from the Lands of the Wasted. They were with her, the n-night she, she- she cursed me-”

His throat had gone as dry as parchment paper. Fear crawled under his skin like insects as he beheld that monster, it’s spindly fingers protruding from the holes of the black suit it had worn. The others took it for yet another human being within the crowd of common folk - yet all Jean saw was a beast that assisted the witch who turned him into what was.

“I can’t see them, Jean.”

“Don’t,” Jean stopped Eren from making eye contact with the monster. He turned around a full circle, grabbed Eren by the sleeve of his shirt, saying, “We need to leave, now-”

_Boom._

A loud, deafening blow erupted from the sea, as sudden as the strike of lightening in a rainy storm. Jean felt the ground beneath him sway, as he fell to his knees. The rest of the people screamed, shouted, cried as they crumpled to the ground. Fire, smoke, sea-water and burning embers filled the air with their thick scents and stenches, making his eyes water. Jean stood on his feet quickly, and glanced at the world out in the open sea. One hard stare was enough for his heart to burst in his chest.

Numerous fighter planes flew up in the sky like flies, the biggest one of which threw the bomb into the sea. The heat and destruction caught one of the small, trading galleys far from the town, as they burst into balls of flames. Their tar-like smokes wafted up in the air thickly, making the big blue up above almost look like the night sky. All at once, the smaller fighter jets let a million fliers loose, the pieces of paper fluttering in the subtle gusts of wind, smelling of burnt tar.

Jean did not witness anything else, for he _ran_.

He heard Eren exclaim in fright from behind him, but he did not find it in himself to stop. He kept on running away, his feet stomping against the hard road, his heart thundering up inside his throat. Breaths pumped out of his mouth in short gusts, as he dodged men and women alike out of his way. Some people he had to nudge aside, which earned him bitter stares and strange looks, on seeing such a seemingly old man having such youthful strength. But Jean could not slow down, not when raw fear burned his muscles, and threatened to send his mind into a fit of panic. There was nothing else he could do; he wanted to run away from those blasts, run away from those wretched henchmen, run away from the worries of the world - _run away, run away, run away_.

It was only until he was up the flight of stairs, and heard the click of the door closing below, that he let himself breathe again.

His breath shuddered out of his mouth, his chest rattling with how hard he was panting. Taking in deep gulps of fresh air, he counted each breath - taking it in, holding it for a second, and then letting it go. Taking it in, and letting it go. Slowly, surely, his hands stopped shaking. His mouth was dry, his feet hurting. He held himself upright from the table, and even then he was sure he would pass out.

“Oi, Jean, why- why don’t you sit down,” Eren spoke from the kitchen. As proud as he seemed most of the times, even he could not hide the slight shakiness in his voice. “I mean, y-you look really pale. I’ll get you some water.”

Jean could not find his tongue anywhere, so he just nodded towards him in thanks. Grabbing the nearest chair he could find, he heaved himself onto it. Even when the world did not shake anymore, even when the ground beneath his feet was still, he felt as if everything had been toppled over. The blast had been huge - his ears still faintly rung, his brain still befuddled from all the adrenaline and fear he had to face. Wrenching the wretched cloak off of him, he felt the magic wear off of his skin, as he threw the cloth away. He carded his fingers through his hair, as he tried steadying his breath.

Jean was sure he would end up ripping his entire scalp off, until Eren came by. “Here you go - water. And have some bread, too. It’ll help.”

Jean accepted the treats from his friend, thanking him with a thoughtful nod. Eren seated himself beside Jean, with a heel of bread in his own hand, munching at it with gusto. A few moments passed by like that, in utter silence. Only after he had nibbled at the edge of his bread, did Jean voice out the one thing in his mind that had been there the entire time:

“What was that?”

“That was a bomb,” Eren told him the obvious. “It had to be from Sina… But, the fliers they had thrown, though…”

“That was enemy propaganda,” said Calcifer from the fireplace. In the entire hustle, Jean had forgotten his presence all together.

“Enemy propaganda?” Jean echoed, confused. “Why would they do that?”

“Well, it’s not a war for nothing,” the fire demon explained knowingly, “it’s a way for Sina to weaken Smith by wavering the hearts of the common folk - even if it has to be done through simple things like posters.”

“Wait, wait Calcifer - would derailing the common people weaken the King at all?” asked Eren.

“Your rule is as strong as the foundation you stand on, right? And that very foundation is made of the people that support you. If those people don’t support you anymore, then your foundation weakens. And when your foundation is weak…”

“...you fall,” ended Jean.

Calcifer nodded. “King Smith is fighting a fruitless war right now. It’s obvious how even the people don’t like his decisions. And this bomb… it is only the beginning.”

Jean turned to look at the fire demon. “What do you mean the ‘beginning’?”

“If you seem to forget, I have eyes all over the place. Every town that this castle is attached to - I can see it. My sight can reach far and wide - and from the things I have seen…” The flames crowning Calcifer flickered ever so slightly, bristling as if a draft was let through. It was then that Jean saw the demon shivering at the thought.

“What things?”

“Bad things, Eren; I see those dark, flying contraptions that Sina have dotting the blue skies so thick, they look like a swarm of nasty bees. And that’s not ever the worst part.”

Jean felt his throat tighten. “There’s worse?”

Calcifer’s black eyes met Jean’s own deeply. “They hover over all the territories that King Smith rules - and they never leave. The worst part is that none of the people that man it are- are people.  
A demon has senses greater than a human’s. We can sense who is human, and who is not. What I felt from those things - they were not human at all. They were like monsters- but- but- they were… worse.”

Eren exhaled shakily beside Jean. Jean himself could not breathe. He held his head in his trembling hands. Whatever Calcifer just revealed to the two of them - nothing else could make his blood run cold that fast. If anything, the war would take a darker turn, with more bloodshed than there would be peace. There would be more bombs, greater and deadlier than the one he just experienced; there would be gunshot, screams, terror, and utter fear. And most of all, the war would no longer be human; it was taking a much more sinister route, an evil twist that smelled too much of betrayal, loss, and wickedness.

Just as a shiver wracked through his bones, he remembered.

He looked up at Calcifer, and blurted out: “What about Marco-”

“Master is out - again,” cut in Calcifer, “I was wondering when you would notice.”

Jean immediately felt heat rise in his cheeks. But moreover, he had a mind of retorting there and then; he felt like stomping his feet onto the floor, and complain how Marco could make such a stupid mistake as to leave the castle at a time when bombs were blowing off outside as they spoke. He wanted to stress on how the wizard should stop going out so frequently, should stop putting his life in constant threat, should stop leaving all of the time and just stay.  
He did not care if Marco could take care of himself. He did not care whether the wizard could defend himself or not, because nothing could finish his urge to care for him. Jean wanted to protect the wizard who saved him - he wanted to.

His steps were still shaky from the blast, his ears still ringing a little, but he paid it no mind. It was only until he had stepped inside the kitchen, that he heard Eren call out:

“Jean, if you are making lunch for Master again-”

“He could be coming back any minute.”

He could tell from the silence that Calcifer was rolling his eyes. “Jean, will you stop doing that all the time?”

“Well, someone has to make sure he’s eating!”

“But why do you bother when he hardly ever touches his food? You’re always met by plates of untouched food - why don’t you give up?”

_Why don’t I give up?_ That was a question Jean had asked himself whenever he collected a plate of cold, soggy food from the ground; it was a question he asked himself whenever he found himself in the kitchen, sorting out enough servings for the wizard to sup on. He asked himself that all the time, whenever he worried about whether or not Marco was eating properly. _Why don’t I give up? Why must I continue the grueling cycle, when I know that most probably, he will never respond to my efforts, may never notice them at all? Why still?_

The answer would not be in words, but with a feeling in his chest. Like an unsung thought, like a nostalgic pull at his heart, it tugged at him. That tug, that pull, that wistfulness had no real name. He could not call it anything. But that nameless feeling was enough for Jean to turn around, ignore the demon and Eren, and enter the kitchen.

But he was interrupted by the sharp ting of the dial. Then there was the twist of a knob, the creak of a door opening, a bang, and then silence.

When he heard soft steps press against the wooden stairs, Jean walked out of the kitchen with slow steps.

There was no stopping the way his breath hitched when he saw broad shoulders emerge from the stairs, with a supple cloak made of red velvet hanging off of them. His lithe legs stopped when he caught sight of everyone. Silence prevailed once more within the Castle that Moved.

It was Calcifer’s crackling flames and sharp voice that cut through it like a knife: “You’re early, Master.”

“I guess my duties were simpler for today,” Marco stated the fire, with a twinkling smile. His voice was as deep and soothing as it had ever been. But something made Jean bite his lip; if anything, his voice sounded somewhat… strange. Strangled. His tone felt a little too forced for comfort.

“Master,” said Eren, “did you hear the blast-”

“Eren,” Marco sighed as he waved his black bangs away from his eyes, cutting his student off, “I’ll be answering everything else later. Now, I must rest-”

“You may take some food along, too,” blurted Jean. He was shocked at how his voice did not shake for a slight second.

But what sent his hands trembling was Marco’s subtle response:

“Um, no. I don’t need food.”

Jean felt his throat dry up within seconds. His mind told him to turn around, and stop himself from saying anything more. But he never really listened to it, did he?

“B-but you haven’t eaten for… for so many days,” Jean reasoned hopelessly, “You- you should take something along with you, something to- to nourish you-”

“In case you have not heard my answer,” said Marco curtly, “I do not need food. Now, if you’d stop bothering me, I would like to go to my room.”

This time, Jean could see the way there was a steeliness settled in his bones, as the wizard turned for his room upstairs - just like they had once upon a time, when they were running for their lives in a narrow alley together.

Jean might have blamed the bomb-blast for rattling his brain completely when he ended up saying, “Why must you run away all the time?”

That made Marco stop in his tracks. That also made Jean’s own heart stop in his chest.

“Excuse me?” asked Marco, a little too courteously. He turned around, to meet his gaze with Jean's own.

“F-forgive me,” Jean recovered, ignoring the way his stare made his throat go dry, “but i-its just- just that you are always leaving, and I worry-”

“Why I leave, and where I go is my business - not yours. I would appreciate that you remember my warning: to not meddle in things where you don’t belong.”

Jean was taken aback by his sudden bitterness. He was not the same, courageous wizard who saved his life back in the town of Trost. He was not that charming man who swept all kinds of danger away from him - this person was bitter, rude, and simply unpleasant.

But he was not ready to have any of it. “Forgive me for- for caring,” Jean said, his voice gone gravelly.

Marco laughed a brittle, hollow laugh. His demeanor was grim, even with how his teeth sparkled. “Oh, and you actually care for me? Why should I believe that? Why should I depend on something like that-”

“Because it is true!” Jean fumed.

He was bristling, his breath coming out in short puffs. He could not care about how loud he was, for he began:

“It’s because we bother to worry about your existence! It’s because we worry whether you will return from another- another damned scout outside or not. _I_ worry, _I_ give you food because I _care_! So instead of whining about being a somebody to us, why don’t you just accept it? Others don’t even get that much - hell, all I have ever been in my life is a _nobody_!”

He was panting by now. Red hot anger licked his insides with a rage he never knew he possessed - but he did not care, because Marco Bodt had no right to complain about mattering. He should be grateful that he has friends who care; he should be thankful that he has lived a life being a somebody - not a lousy nobody like Jean.

His speech must have been enough, for Marco did not speak anymore. For a few still moments, he said nothing, but only stared, his brown eyes glistening with something so pure, so raw, that it made Jean forget his anger for a split second. And then, there was a flicker; there was a hesitance within the wizard, which made him wrench his gaze away. His head was now bowed, his brows furrowed, and his mouth gone tight-lipped. Jean could feel that damned stubbornness in him again, as his fists clenched at his sides.  
Suddenly, the blond could no longer bear it. All at once, he felt like screaming, raging, crying, running far, far away from everything that he had to go through, escape into a world where Jean could smile, where he could sleep in peace, where he could have skin that was whole and full, where he could be a somebody. He just wanted to leave, and never return.

When he felt tears prickle his eyes, he cursed himself. Again, there was that weakness, that damned helplessness in every situation he had ever been through. It was all his measly self knew how to do; run, hide, and break. There was nothing else that he could do with his own two hands.

Anger, self-hatred, remorse, regret, and hopelessness - it all clawed at his being, sending his sanity into a world full of pain and emptiness and confusion. He was ready to leave, ready to abandon all hope, ready to run, _run away-_

His legs made the decision before his brain could.

Cursing himself, he faced the door. Feet slammed against the wooden stairs, stomp, stomp, stomp. A hand wrenched the door open to a random portal. Cold, frigid air stung his burning cheeks - but he could not care less. He wanted to leave, he wanted to run, to escape.

Eren’s voice and Calcifer’s begging peals ceased to exist the moment Jean closed the door behind him. After that, there was silence; a solemn, heavy kind of silence, that was punctuated by his own heavy breathing. As he hopped off of the entryway, Jean noticed how he was not in some foreign town. It was a place clouded with mist, hiding everything from plain sight. The sky was grey, and the land greyer. But when he inhaled shakily, he caught a whiff of greenery, and the scent of pines and wet earth that told him a different story - he was in the Lands of the Wasted.

His legs felt heavy, his head heavier. Breaths came out in short pants as he inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, and exhaled. It was seconds later that he stopped himself abruptly, when the tips of his shoes kissed the edge of a cliff, beyond which no land existed. From the way the mist seemed to have no end down below, it looked as if he stood on the very edge of the world; the point beyond which none could return.

Could his worries melt away as simply as that? Could he throw everything that pained him down that precipice, and hope that they never come crawling out? Could he banish all the curses that clawed at his skin and wore away his sanity, and live a normal life?

Silence filled the moist air again. When Jean inhaled again, he smelled something earthy in the air. It was going to rain, that he could tell.

He should have ran away; that was the plan when he wrenched that door open. He should have turned his back towards that castle, and moved on. But he knew nothing of where he would go, how he would survive with his condition, how would he simply walk through lands as dangerous as the Lands of the Wasted. Yet, he could not stay, either. He could not stay.

And still, his feet did not walk further. Instead of moving, he stood there, as still as a mountain. He lifted his gaze up, staring at the clouds above him. They were so dark they almost looked black, like the night sky. It could rain any moment.

The tears fell down his cheeks before the rain ever did.

Jean finally understood what it meant to truly break, to feel any kind of foundation one made for themselves crumble beneath them, to see the walls protecting one’s sanity slowly wither away, till nothing remained but sheer emptiness. Jean finally realized how hopeless, how hollow, how damned useless he was, as he stood there, and sobbed out all his sorrows to the sky. When the fat droplets of rain soaked his clothes, slammed against his skin, and kissed the tears on his cheeks, he truly felt every piece of him crack. He tried seeking comfort in the fact that he was not sharing his grief alone; he sought a moment’s relief in the fact that the sky was sad with him.

But nothing could stop the wet gasps and cries that wrenched out of his shaky chest. Nothing could - because he was weak. He was weak, and fragile. He could not hope to survive in a world where he could not compete, a world where he would always be frail and lost. He could not live in a world that treated him like a nobody.  
But that was all he was - a nobody. In the eyes of his family, in the eyes of his friends, in the eyes of Eren, Calcifer-

In the eyes of Marco Bodt, he was just another person; a useless obstacle - a _nobody_.

Feeling exhaustion leech his life away, he fell to his knees. The rain fell on his hair, dripping down his face, stinging his eyes, but he could not care. His eyes stared at the palms of his hands in helplessness.

To Marco, he could be nothing, and the thought hurt him more than was necessary. He felt like laughing at himself; he should have expected that. He was just the cleaner, the cook, the caretaker. He was just another inhabitant of the castle - how could his care matter to the wizard of the Castle that Moved?

_But he matters to me._

The revelation was interrupted when he felt something warm beside him. His gaze snapped to his right side, eyes blown wide - but his expression softened when he saw a dark body, fur that once glowed like beaten silver now matted with rain, and a gaze as dark as onyx.

“Lady,” Jean croaked, his lips cracking into a smile. The she-wolf whimpered beside him, nuzzling her muzzle against Jean’s chest. Her nose rubbed against his chest warmly, right where his heart was. The soft voices emanating from her sounded almost like a reassurance.

The effort of hers just made him cry more tears. He wrapped an arm around her neck softly, the other hand extending to scratch under her jaw. He sniffed noisily, as he mumbled, “Lady, you- _you_ won’t leave my side, huh?”

The she-wolf gave no reply, but the way her eyes twinkled even through the fog gave him the answer.

He smiled a watery smile. “That’s good to hear.” Sniffling again, he pressed his face into her fur. The wolf did not hate that move of his, for Jean felt her paw on his lap. He breathed in her scent, felt the dirt and droplets sticking to her fur, let himself bask within her presence. He had been feeling alone so suddenly, the presence of a wolf like Lady was enough to soothe his heart.

The rain fell lightly now, but Jean made no move to get up yet. With his arms around Lady, Jean realized how he did not want to leave. Despite how strange the castle felt to him, despite how those walls constantly reminded him of all that he had lost and all the curses inflicted on him, he could not make himself leave forever. He was indebted to the place; it was his only sanctuary, away from the judging world. He was safe inside the Castle that Moved.

Marco Bodt had saved him, too. He was indebted to him forever. He could not just leave - he did not want to.

The realization struck him as openly as the rain over him. It made his heart feel a little warm, despite his cold, damp bones. He could have basked in that feeling for a little while longer, if it were not for the rain stopping so suddenly - even when the droplets fell over the world around him.

“Well, well; Lady can’t seem to resist you, huh?”

He recognized that voice perfectly well. Jean looked up to see not a dark, rainy sky, but a huge, green umbrella that hooded over his bent figure, shielding the rain off of him. And the one who held it was none other than Eren, donned in a black cloak of his own.

“Well,” he said, looking down at Jean, “Calcifer and I were wondering if you… if you still want to stay around. I mean- we can’t make food as good as yours. And you’re the only one who can keep Calcifer within his manners…”

Jean blinked up at his friend. Instead of scowling, he felt a soft smile tug at his lips.

Wiping the stray drops of rain and salty tears off of his cheeks, he said, “Yes. I think- I think I’ll stay.”

And Jean meant those words for once, because for the first time in his life, he actually felt as if he mattered.

  
Once Jean was dry and clean, he resorted to the kitchen, where he cooked up some dinner for Eren and himself. He cut up carrots, leeks, and bits of mutton for the tomato stew. The scent of sweet tomato and the assortment of spices he bought from the market filled the air around him.  
The soft pitter patter of the rain that ran down the window panes was all that filled the castle, as they supped on some hearty stew and loaves of peppered bread. Calcifer made do with the carcass, while Eren inhaled half of his food in mere moments.

But before Jean began his own food, he took a spare bowl, and filled it with the thick stew. Plopping a spoon in it, he took the bowl along with himself, as he climbed up the stairs.

Neither Calcifer nor Eren stopped him. They remained silent, as his footsteps rung within the castle. Jean was thankful for that much; he did not want yet another fight with the fire demon on this matter.

He had been holding his breath inside his chest all the while, and only let it out when he stood before the door that led to Marco’s room. A part of him wanted to leave the bowl there and run, a part of him wanted to take the bowl along with him, and another part of him wanted to knock on the door, and say a few words of apology.

But he recalled the words that Marco had spoken before:

_“Oh, and you actually care for me? Why should I believe that?”_

Jean shook the thought away, and sniffed. Squaring his shoulders, he placed the bowl on the ground, and walked back downstairs.

Maybe Marco meant whatever he had said back then. Maybe he did not believe Jean when he told him that he cared - but there was no denying the fact that Jean cared about Marco’s existence. He deemed that reason enough to stay.

When the day was done, he was clearing up the dishes. Stepping up the stairs once more, he expected yet another bowl of stew left untouched, another platter of food he’d have to throw away, or feed to Calcifer forcefully. What he did not expect was what he actually saw:

There stood the bowl he had left, with the spoon - but it was empty, the red remains of the stew licked right off of the ceramic sides.

Jean paused for a silent moment, just reveling at the instance; Marco actually ate his food. He listened to him, and he obeyed.

Picking up the empty bowl off of the floor, he looked at his door again. After long, infinite moments, he felt a genuine smile touched his lips, as he cocked his head to one side. He smiled to himself even more when he made his way downstairs. It was then that he realized something else:

Before, that door had felt like miles between the two of them - but now, he felt somewhat closer to the wizard, closer than he had ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAYYYY this ended at a good note, huh? Tell me what u think by commenting below! I'd love hearing from u guys about this! Constructive criticism works with me, too - I'm not picky! :D
> 
> Anyway, thankyou guys for reading! Until next time~

**Author's Note:**

> Just something to clear you guys out; its only for this story that I've pictured Petra as a sister of Jean's Father. And as for her name: she has married, so that's why her name is Petra 'Ral' now. I hope this much of tinkering is bearable orz
> 
> Read and Review, please! I appreciate the help a lot! :3
> 
> If you want to share something related, I'm tracking the tag "fic: the castle that moved" on tumblr! Or you can use the tag "captaink-irschtein" as well c:  
> Until next time, bye bye!


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